In My Bones
by Lyra Raine Sparrow
Summary: She still needed to talk to Sherlock alone, mostly about Payton, but also about, well, them. Not that "them" was a thing or even was in the realm of possibility. Them being a thing died the moment Sherlock did. They hadn't exactly been a romance or a love story. (Part 3 of In A Song)
1. Prologue

_A: Oh, look at what's finally here! A lovely little sequel. Just in time for Christmas. The way I have this planned. If I post a chapter every day, I'll finish on Christmas Eve. Ugh... I'm so excited._

* * *

**Prologue**

_**LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON, LIKE DAUGHTER  
Zachary Pine; 16 July 2011**_

_ABINGTON, VA – It's no secret the Quinn family has always had trouble with relationships. Especially when they have a tendency to fall for the wrong people. But it seems like Christabella's, the youngest of Jesse and Leotie Quinn, love life takes the cake._

_Let's go back sixty years, when Marcus Quinn, the current head of the family and recently retired Director of the CIA, was twenty-three. The year was 1951, Marcus was fresh out of college and gas cost $.20. Global warming hadn't existed and social media didn't have power over you. Which was a good thing for incumbent Agent Quinn._

_At the time he had a wonderful girl by the name of Caroline Elswood. Caroline came from southern royalty, the Elswoods having money tracing back to slave times. With the traditional blonde hair, blue-eyed look, she was the perfect arm candy for Marcus, whose family had always been a major player in the intelligence community. Making Marcus royalty of his own._

_The two natives of Georgia had met during the summer holiday after Marcus' third year at Harvard, at a less than impressive party. Both had wanted to find a better scene and had actually run into the other as they left. They bonded over the lack enjoyment and spent the rest of the night walking through the streets of Savannah._

_Things went well for the pair, as their impromptu walk turned into a full blow relationship, an engagement was announced six months later and plans were made for a wedding._

_But it wasn't two months into the engagement that things began to get rocky._

_Insert 20-years-old Margret Carter, Maggie to her friends. Maggie showed up in the college town of Cambridge, MA wielding a false detective badge with the name of Gene Fontaine, under the ruse of investigating a murder that had happened on campus. She had told a handful of the victim's friends, which included Marcus, that they had a correlation to couple of murders a few towns over. _

_Marcus had been roommates with the victim at the time of his death, and always one for justice, had insisted Detective Fontaine come to him if she ever needed anything. She had stayed in town for almost two weeks, meeting with Marcus nearly every day over coffee._

_Two days after she left town, she and her brother, William, who had also falsified his identity in the town the original murders were committed, were arrested after they had dug up a grave and burned the body found in it._

_They escaped before formal charges were made with help from an unknown assailant, who is thought to be their younger sister, Elizabeth._

_After word reached Marcus, who, according to friends, had formed an unhealthy obsession for Ms. Carter, he began to do some investigating himself, after finishing his degree of course. He traced her back to the small town of Rockwell, NC, where he learned that her parents had been killed by a wolf attack. Since then, Maggie, Will, and Beth Carter had traveled the country. The only times their names had popped up was if one or two of them had been arrested._

_It had been interesting enough, that Marcus had followed them, always missing them by a day or two._

_At this point the wedding was just three months away, however it seemed he'd all but forgotten Ms. Elswood. That didn't sit too kindly with the southern belle, who'd confronted him after his chase had brought him home to Savannah._

_The confrontation had been massive, talk of it circled the gossiping community for months, but Caroline had gotten Marcus to stay and the wedding went on without a hitch. This wouldn't be the last time Maggie Carter stirred up trouble in Marcus' life._

_After the wedding, things were good for about three years._

_The Quinns, now joined by a baby boy name Henry, had moved from Georgia to Virginia to be closer Marcus' parents who had made the journey a year prior when Franklin, Marcus' father, had been promoted to Director._

_Six months after the move, Caroline, who had been on a walk through the small patch of woods that surrounded their house, was attacked by a wolf. It was Henry's nanny who had found the body, after taking the path to search for her boss who hadn't come back._

_It had been the third death in as many weeks to blame on a wolf. Investigators had been stumped, animal control had never seen anything like it, and hunters had started taking to the woods in hopes of catching the animal responsible._

_With the fourth murder, the story made national news, bringing reporters and hunters alike from all over the nation trying to get in on the action. With them come the Carter siblings. Will had come three days before his sisters, posing as a hunter from Kansas named Bill Donovan. Maggie and Beth had been reporters from North Carolina, their aliases unknown._

_Beth had been the one to interview Marcus, who had clutched his son tight and insisted that he didn't know anything, he hadn't even been home at the time of the murder. It would prove to be four days before Maggie and Marcus would cross paths again._

_They'd run into each other in town at the local supermarket. Maggie comforted him in the following days she was there, spending nearly every waking minute she could. A week later Will came into town carrying two rather large wolves, claiming them to be the cause of the eight murders that plagued the small town. Sure enough, the attacks had stopped._

_When it came time for the Carter siblings to skip town, Maggie elected to stay. An unfortunate choice for her as she was taken into FBI custody three months later. Marcus had been her legal representation, his nonofficial cover story at the time a junior partner in a nearby law firm, and managed to get her out of all charges._

_Eighteen months later, they married, eight months after that, their first son, Jesse was born. Their son James followed a year after that._

_Fast forward sixteen years, to Jesse, who's a senior in high school. Currently, he's dating the beautiful Leotie Mercoletti, the half-Cherokee, half-Italian heiress whose own parents had a Shakespeare-esque love story._

_Jesse and Leotie were high school sweethearts. They spent every waking minute together. So it wasn't shocking when sixteen-year-old Leotie ends up pregnant. It didn't destroy their relationship, neither's grades had slipped either, actually the pregnancy had only proved to strengthen their relationship._

_With her parent's permission, Jesse had a manor built on the vineyard her father owned, and the two of them moved in after Jesse graduated, just in time for the birth of Fiona. Jesse took a gap year between schooling to take care of the child so Leotie could focus on her senior year._

_Both applied to Georgetown the following year, Jesse intent on a linguistics degree and Leotie after a law degree. Liam came to them the following March, two months after they married, making their tiny townhouse seem even smaller. After they graduated, both successful in their degrees, they returned back to the manor, where the family of four were joined by triplets Payton, Patricia, and Paige and twins Alfred and Archibald._

_Things didn't get rocky until then. With Leotie, the nanny, and Sylvia; Leotie's mother, all busy with the children and Jesse's job on rocky ground, he began to lose faith in his marriage. It started to split at the seams. And Jesse began seeing another woman_

_Jessica Sanchez was a longtime friend of the Quinns', having been in the same graduating class as them at Georgetown. The linguist worked alongside Jesse in his own nonofficial cover at a local translator firm._

_At first, things were innocent, the two went out for drinks after work on Friday nights. Some days they would take an early lunch together. But things soon became more as they would spend more time together, they even took trips down to Jesse's lake house, and Jessica's title went from friend and confidant, to mistress and lover._

_The affair went on for months, even after Leotie was diagnosed with a severe case of pneumatic plague while on a charity trip to Zimbabwe. It was during Leotie's battle, that Miss Sanchez took her leave after Jesse reportedly told her that "being by her side is the least I could do."_

_By some miracle, after doctors had given up, Leotie did regain her health, and the Quinns did manage to fix their marriage after Jesse confessed. They were graced with their youngest twelve months later; Christabella._

_Christabella, who until recently preferred to go by Anabeth, is where our story goes next. We all know about her failed marriage back in '96, but the story between Ana and James Moriarty doesn't end there._

_Now, unless you've been living under a rock, you've certainly heard the scandal Moriarty and self-proclaimed "Consulting Detective" Sherlock Holmes created over in England. And it really shouldn't come as a surprise that little troublemaker Anabeth was smack-dab in the middle._

_Anabeth and James met up again after Anabeth had moved to London (where she became a burlesque dancer), and began to rekindle their romance. Whatever caused James to leave her at the altar, was certainly not a problem this time around._

_Four months later, she moves into the same building as Sherlock Holmes and, according to sources who asked not to be named, began a slow building romance. Which, according to a different source who again asked not to be named, became obsessive on both ends towards the end._

_Of course, that never stopped Anabeth from marrying James. Perhaps they should have gone with a simple ceremony the first time?_

_Just recently, Anabeth, whose back to using her first name, gave birth to a bouncing baby boy, Payton Hamish. And although the child bears the surname of Holmes, the name of the father was never given. _

_Which begs the question of which one of her lovers is the father? Or does she even know?_

_Marcus and Jesse both had their turmoil down Relationship Road, with stops at Over-obsession Outlet and Adultery Superstore respectively, but it's Christabella who stopped at both before booking a room at the Unknown Baby Daddy Bed and Breakfast. At least her bed has already been made._

* * *

"Don't listen to it Ana."

"I'm not."

"It's not even well written."

"I know. I can see that. Still doesn't mean Dad didn't cheat on Mom while she was dying. I might just kill him for that."

"I- oh. Well then. I didn't see that coming."

"You really should have, Alfie."

* * *

**Some late night talk show**

"I don't know if you've seen it on the news recently, but you know the Quinn's? The ones that make up half the CIA? Anyway, the youngest daughter, Christabella, she was the one that got caught up in that mess over in England, Between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. What kind of name is that anyway, Sherlock?"

"She married the other guy," the emcee states, "the Consulting Criminal, James Moriarty."

"Really? I didn't know that. I knew they were engaged back in '95-'96. It was a big deal since she was so young. They had a huge wedding planned, and he left her at the altar."

"Yep. It was a shotgun wedding. From what her brother says."

"Huh, anyway, she had a baby last Friday."

The audience awes. The host nods. "Yep, a little boy, 8 pounds 4 ounces. Payton Hamish Holmes. Payton after Christabella's sister who died of cancer years ago, and Hamish after the little short guy that followed the detective around."

"I guess the weird name thing runs in Sherlock's family."

Everyone laughs.

"What gets me though is she gave the baby his name but the line on the birth certificate where you would put the father's name is left blank. So it very well could be her late husband's child or his arch nemesis'. I don't know what's worse, having to explain that he has the same name as his dead aunt or how he shares a last name with his father's arch enemy."

* * *

"How can you do it?" John asks, gingerly, like any moment the brunette will snap.

"Do what?" Ana responds.

"Go about life like nothing happened. Pretend that none of this media bothers you. You loved him."

She shrugs. "I wake up every morning to a miracle and he keeps me going."


	2. Chapter 1: Echos in the Wind

**Chapter One  
"Echoes in the Wind"**

"You have got to be kidding me."

John stares at his black haired guest she chats on the phone with someone, he hasn't caught a name.

"He didn't! I can't believe..." Ana shoots him a grin and gives a little wave at the child on his lap, who waves back at her.

He chuckles to himself as Mary takes a seat at the table beside him.

"What's so funny?" she wonders.

John shakes his head. "It's a girl thing, isn't it?"

"What is?"

He nods his head towards Ana and her outrageous smile. "The gossiping about men like that."

"Alright, sweetheart, this is what you have to do. You're going to tell Leo yes, because he's the one I like. Then you and Traci are going to go to that salon by Northlake, ask for Manda and Teak, and get a Mani-Pedi and a facial. And then, do you remember that black dress I got you at Macy's? Mhmm, pair that with a colorful scarf. And then, I want you to go into my closet and get one of three pairs of shoes; my pair of Louboutin either Lady Dafs, or the hidden platform lace pumps, or my Valentino lace pumps. Make-up, jewelry the whole nine..."

John turns back to Mary who has a knowing look on her face as she motions toward the little one on her boyfriend's lap to come to her.

"Hey, Payton." she calls to him.

The toddler looks over to Mary with a confused expression before he turns to hide his face in John's chest.

"He must be tired," Ana says as she hangs up the phone. "We had a less than restful night. He was plagued with nightmares." She holds her arms out slightly and the little boy reaches for his mother in response. "You ready for your nap, _u-s-di_?"

Payton nods as his blue-green eyes flutter shut.

"Alright, say bye-bye to John and Mary."

A little hand waves as its twin rubs at his eyes.

John and Mary wave back with smiles on their faces.

"I'll be right back," she tells them before she starts to rock the nearly-three-year-old and gently coos his lullaby.

* * *

"He's a cute little bugger, isn't he?" Mary asks when Ana returns. John had left just moments before, silently peering into the guest room of the small flat he and Mary shared to say good-bye to Ana as he had a place to stop before he got ready for dinner.

The American smiles, taking a seat across from the blonde. "Well, yes, he can be when he wants to. Most of the time he's driving me up a wall. He's so much like his father."

Mary pursed her lips, eying Ana curiously. "Sherlock Holmes, right?"

Ana's smile is fleeting before she agrees with a nod. "Yes. I'm sure the two of them together would have proved to be the death of the remainder of my sanity." She looks down to her fingers as she picks at her chipping nail polish, blue sparkly flakes drifting down to her lap.

Mary smiles knowingly, a sadness in her eyes. "You miss him, don't you?"

"Terribly. God, do I miss him." She didn't bother to add the fact that she'd also not be in this position, that a single mother, if he were still alive. Things would've gone so much differently.

Mary gives her a small, sympathetic smile.

And that's the end of it because Ana leaves once again, her hands shaking with either sadness or anger, and she's not sure which it is or which is worse.

* * *

It seemed more and more of Christabella's vocabulary consisted of "I wouldn't have to do this if..." and to be honest most of it came from her own stupidity and being a single mother. Not many people could handle the pizzeria in Georgia, the bakery in New Mexico, a surprisingly successful restaurant in North Carolina, the burlesque club in London, the constant travel between it all and a toddler who's started showing signs of, well, _something. _She's just not sure what that something is.

Honestly, Christabella was certainly not one of those people, but it had all seemed so _easy_.

But then there were those times where she was subject to others stupidity. Like now for instance.

Ana was pacing just off to the side of the entrance of the restaurant, the small red velvet box opening and shutting in her hand. Of course, John wasn't completely to blame. He's been worried since her arrival two days prior, about tonight. Payton had only made things worse as he somehow gained the energy of six children his age and chose the moment right before John and Mary left to let it all go.

She'd promised profusely that she'd stay with Mrs. Hudson for the evening, taking her child with her.

Ana waited for Mary to leave the table before she rushed to John's side, plopping the ring box on his plate.

The doctor looks up, with a smile, from the wine menu to the young mom, who'd changed out of her very comfortable sweats and a tee from earlier into a nondescript black dress and pumps that altogether probably cost more than everything on the little menu totaled, if he knew her. She'd even taken enough time to whisk her hair into a nice up-do. Or maybe she'd already started getting ready to go out herself...

"I swear if your head wasn't screwed on, you would've left that too." She gives him a grin, unable to fake frustration at him.

"Thanks," he says, picking up the box to make sure the ring wasn't missing. "I owe you big."

Ana nods. "Yeah, you do, and also Mrs. Hudson deserves a card or flowers. I sort of sprang Payton on her."

"You're a lifesaver."

"Actually, I'm better than a fruit-flavoured, or mint-flavoured, hard candy with a hole in the center so children don't choke." She laughs then, a cheeky smile on her face. "Alright, I have to disappear before Mary returns. Good luck!"

"Thanks again," he responds as she turns away.

She runs into a waiter at that moment, almost stumbling back into John's table.

"_Excusez-moi_," the man breathes.

Ana's quick with a smile as she looks up to apologize. "_D__ésolé. C'est de ma fau-_"

It's almost comical how often the words "I wouldn't have to do this if..." shows up in her vocabulary. And while her "rude American" subconscious raced ahead with "I wouldn't have to apologize if..." the rest of her was slowly catching up with just who the blue-green eyes that stared down at her belonged to.

Of course, that would be the perfect moment for Mary to return to the table, a confused look on her face. She didn't even take a seat before she was asking after Ana, and John who was still reading the menu, glanced up to inquire why Ana was _still_ there. His question had gotten stuck in his throat as he saw the waiter glance at him.

"Surprise?"


	3. Chapter 2: Too Long, Too Late

**Chapter Two  
"Too Long, Too Late"**

"Surprise?"

Neither Ana nor John make a move to say anything. Their gazes are locked onto their unwelcome guest and Ana's hands are shaking again, most likely out of anger, or perhaps out of shock.

Mary is the first to speak. "Is this- Do you two know him?"

Ana's the first to move, an almost imperceptible nod her only movement, but Mary catches it.

"Why are you-?"

"Well, short version," Sherlock says, his eyes flickering between John and Anabeth, "Not. Dead."

John's face rakes over emotion after emotion finally settling on a mixture of pain, shock and anger. Ana's face is still immaculately blank, although her eyes, icy as they are, betray the heartache and confusion she feels.

The awkward silence has drawn attention from nearby tables. People are starting to talk in hushed whispers and Christabella's only reaction to it all, now that her hands have stopped trembling, is to make herself smaller.

"I-" the American tries, but a half-choked sob cuts her off and she's a step away from being hysterical.

Finally, it dawns on Mary, who this unknown man is. "Oh no! You're..."

Sherlock glances towards her, guilt making its home on his face. "Oh yes."

"Oh, my God."

"Not quite."

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

The detective shakes his head.

"But, you're _dead_!" Mary nearly shouts appalled.

"No. I'm quite sure. Excuse me." He picks up a napkin and dips it into Mary's glass of water. "I checked," he says as he wipes at his eyeliner mustache.

Mary's concerned glare has slowly turned to anger. "Do you have _any _idea what you've put them through?"

Sherlock looks away nervously. "John, Christabella-"

"Don't you _**dare**_ "_Christabella"_ me," Anabeth sneers, finally finding her voice. And it's clear she's begun to tremble again, with anger certainly.

"Okay, look," Sherlock says, holding his hands up defensively. "I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe the both of you some sort of apology."

Anabeth's next statement is cut short by John slamming his fist on the table, which makes her jump and snap her mouth shut.

"Two years," he whispers. He takes a deep breath, trying to put more force behind his voice, bowing his head. "Two years." Another deep breath. "We thought..." he groans and gestures helplessly. "I thought... you were... dead." John begins to grown angry then and his breathing hastens as he turns his gaze back to Sherlock. "Hmm? Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?"

Sherlock looks down, biting his lip.

"How?"

Ana's moved to crossing her arms, resting her weight on one foot. A brow is raised and her eyes still give away how betrayed she feels, but she's deathly silent.

John shifts his weight as well, the fury in his eye no longer bidden by sadness and shock.

"Wait-" Sherlock nearly yells in haste. "Before you do anything that you might regret..."

Ana's other brow joins its manicured twin beneath her bangs as she tilts her head in consideration before her lips turn up into a pained sneer. "Yeah, I don't think I'll regret this," she says before she punches him squarely in the face.

* * *

It wasn't Christabella's punch that had gotten them thrown out of the restaurant. Actually, it was a snide comment about mustaches towards John, and the doctor's responding attempt to throttle the detective that got them thrown out.

But now John, Mary, and Ana are sitting (well, Ana's standing, pacing to be more specific) in a cafe waiting for Sherlock to return from cleaning himself up in the restroom.

"What am I going to do about Payton? What do I tell him?" Anabeth questions.

Mary looks up at her with a frown. "You don't have to tell him anything, Ana. He doesn't deserve to hear any of it."

Ana stops her pacing and look at the woman confused. "What? No. I know that. I meant Payton. What do I tell Payton?"

"What have you told him?" John wonders, his anger subsiding for the moment for Ana's sake.

"I mean, he's two. I haven't really told him anything." She shrugs. "I mean, I picked him up from preschool the other day, back in June, apparently his class had started with Father's Day things. And he asked me why he didn't have a daddy like the rest of his class? What in Hell was I supposed to say to that?"

"What _did_ you say?"

She throws her arms in the arm before letting them fall with a loud smack against her sides. "The truth, sorta. I told him that he died, that he was a good man. And that he's in Heaven looking over us and that he loved him... This is absolutely fucking ridiculous. This whole God damned situation." Ana groans as she throws herself down in the chair. "I didn't want this. I never wanted to be a fucking mother. I never wanted to be _that girl. _I can't do it. Certainly not now. Not with Sherlock showing up like nothing happened. Like I haven't just spent the last two years believin' he was dead. I'd rather visit Lucifer in Hell and get all cozy with his demonic followers. This is beyond fucked up."

"Anabeth?" John wonders and he sounds almost like he just figured out he's been lied to his entire life. Which given the current situation isn't too far off. "What's gotten into you?"

"Life, mainly," she deadpans. "Depression, too. And Sherlock, obviously. Payton wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Who's Payton?" Sherlock wonders as he joins them.

Anabeth stares at him, her eyes in a squint, her jaw set. "Like you don't already fucking know? Mycroft probably told you all about him. How he acts just like you all the damn time, how I never get a break, how he only really behaves when Nema or Mrs. Hudson are around, how he only falls asleep after I've sung that stupid Kansas song to him three times. I don't think I can listen to that song anymore without going mad, I mean he couldn't have fallen asleep to like "Penguin" or Journey or something? God, he is so your son. And I'm only rambling right now because if I shut up there's a 95 percent chance that I'm going to punch you again. And this is why I'm not cut out to be a mother."

She groans as she throws her head down. "Look, Payton is inconsequential at the moment, what isn't is why you," she clears her throat. "Why you had the–the gall to _fake your death _! And choo-"

Sherlock gave her a look as if the answer was blatant, and maybe it was.

"I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying at all possible."

John sighs, "You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick."

"What?"

"Not how, dumbass," Christabella snaps. "Why."

"Why?" Sherlock asks confused. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped."

The American blanched. "Moriarty. _Jim Moriarty_. You faked your death because Mori-" she scoffed. "Of course, that was obvious, John saw that. I meant-"

"Oh," he frowns, "I see. Yes. Well, that's a little more complicated."

"I've got all night," John says darkly.

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down. "Actually, that was, er, Mycroft's plan."

"Oh so it's your brother's plan?"

Anabeth squinted at the detective. "There were others," she says slowly. "How many others?"

"Just a couple of others," Sherlock tells.

"Who else?" John asks.

Sherlock hesitated.

"Who?"

"I- Molly."

"Molly?" John growls.

"John," Mary murmurs.

"Molly Hooper – and _some _of my homeless network and that's _all_."

"Oh," Christabella says coolly, "right. Just Mycroft, Molly and a hundred tramps. Perfect. Glad to know that there actually was a loop to be kept out of, and a giant one at that. Marvelous."

Sherlock chuckles, but he was the only one who saw the humor in the night. "No. Twenty-five at most."

There's a beat of silence before John's attempting to throttle Sherlock once more.

* * *

Anabeth leaves after that, having a prior engagement that night. A 'date' with her dance partner, who she lacks any chemistry with. It's a last ditch effort.

Who knows?

Maybe they'll end up like Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey.


	4. Chapter 3: Bitterness and Sympathy

**Chapter Three  
"Bitterness Or Sympathy"**

It really shouldn't have surprised John when he received a phone call from Mrs. Hudson the next morning. He should have known. There was no way Christabella was going to go home and pretend she was fine. She wasn't _that_ girl.

"Have you seen Anabeth? She was supposed to come get Payton this morning."

John sighs. "No, I haven't. She must have... she had a date last night. Or something like that, maybe they hit it off." Although, he heavily doubts that.

"Well, if you see her, just remind her."

"Right, yeah."

It wasn't an all uncommon conversation. They had it more than they really should have.

* * *

It was four hours later, that a very annoyed Anabeth is dragged into the sitting room by none other than Greg Lestrade to face a very angry Mary and John and a downright livid Sherlock. Apparently Mrs. Hudson still had Payton in her flat. Or maybe she'd taken him out for lunch.

"Ow! Seriously, are the handcuffs necessary?" The brunette tried to glare over her shoulder at the detective inspector as he unlocked her hands.

Lestrade glared back. "Yes they were."

"Where was she?" Mary asks crossing her arms.

"One of her usual haunts," he responds.

"I was on the roof of Bart's," Ana says with a shrug. "I like visiting the scene of my heartbreaks. I quite enjoy causing myself pain."

"Thank you for finding her," John says, pointedly ignoring the American.

"Yes, thank you for bringing me home, Gary. Ruining my high, too."

"It's Greg," Lestrade growls as he turns to leave.

Anabeth snorted. "I know. I just like ticking you off. Did you know that Panic! At The Disco is the best band to listen to when on an acid trip? Not that I was tripping. Apparently, my date last night and I did have something in common, in the fact that we like getting high and listening to pop punk. We had an interesting conversation."

"You have a child, Christabella," John growls.

She rolls her eyes and throws herself on the couch. "Yeah, thank you Captain Obvious. Larry, there is the one that knocked me up."

"He's two."

Ana had the gall to look surprised. "Is he? Really? I hadn't noticed. It wasn't like, I don't know, I was _there_ or anything."

Mary storms over towards the couch, and yanks the other woman up.

"Christabella Moriarty, you get your ass up and you take a shower." Mary shoves her towards the bathroom. "When you're finished, we're going to have a few words together and then you're going to properly introduce your son to his father."

Anabeth turns around, fury coloring her eyes a stormy blue. "Careful, _Mary Morstan_, look how far you've gotten, you wouldn't want to mess it all up now would you?"

"Just get in the bloody shower, Anabeth," Mary growls.

And she does. Because Mary _knows_. But Anabeth _knows_, too.

* * *

The kitchen is silent while the trio waits for Anabeth to get out of the shower. It's when the water shuts off, that the silence is broken.

"She's certainly changed," Sherlock says softly.

John scoffs and shoots his best friend a look.

"She's had a rough couple of years," Mary says just as softly. "Most days she does okay. But there are days, especially the days she's away from Payton, where she's lost all outlook on life and turns into what you saw."

"It was worse right after Payton was born. It was like she had to make up the nine months of being sober. I honestly don't know how she's alive right now."

Mary shrugs and gives a "Who knows?" kinda face.

"You don't get it, do you?"

The trio turn to look at Christabella, who just stepped out of the bathroom, tendrils of steam flowing out in waves.

Her hair was wrapped up in a towel balancing on her head. Her voice was raw, her eyes red and puffy. There were teeth marks on her chapped lips from where she bite them to keep her mouth shut. There's crescent indents on her palms where she fisted her hands.

"No, we don't. So why don't you explain it to us?" John asks.

"I don't want to be here."

The monotone of the statement was perhaps the scariest thing about the moment, but for the life him he couldn't bring himself to stop her. The towel had fallen off her head just moments ago and her hair fell in tangled, wet locks that only added to the pitiful vision that was Anabeth this last little bit of time.

"I've never wanted to be here. What person, in their right mind or not, whether they've led a life similar to mine or not wants to be here? After everything I did, every stupid fucking mistake I pulled, every time I all but threw myself off a cliff, I still can't manage to fucking die right. Do you know why? Do you know what they said as I laid in the hospital bed recovering? After getting shot? After slitting my wrists? After overdosing on too many _fucking_ drugs to count? They told me I was lucky. Every single person who saw me told me I was _lucky_ to be alive. That God had some great plan for me."

She snorts humorlessly. "_Yeah_, like God gives a shit. I don't see him down here suffering with the rest of us. I don't see him wading through the trial and tribulations of humanity." Her icy colored eyes peer at Sherlock unwavering, sending a shiver down his spine. "The only reason I'm still here, and you'll get a kick out of this, it's not even for the kid, it's 'cause I'm too chicken shit to take my own life."

And if they hadn't already been stunned silent, that certainly would have shut them up.

"So yeah, _Sherlock_, I've changed. I've changed a lot in two years. But I guess that's what happens when life sucks." She throws her arms out to the side like she'd given up. "And yeah, I'm pretty fucking reckless when I don't have my son. But you know, I really just can't find it in myself, between the depression and the self-hate, to care what the hell happens to me. Hell, Payton is better off without me. He could be given a better life, if I wasn't a part of it. But you know, for him, for you three, hell, for anyone that thinks they care, I'll pretend. Okay? I'll pretend that everything is okay."

And maybe that was the worst part of all; that Christabella was willing to be selfless, to torture herself with her own cruel words.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she says calmly, as if she didn't just have a violent outburst. She picks up her towel from the floor and throws it over the back of a kitchen chair.

"I have to go pick up my son."


	5. Chapter 4: Reason To Hope

**Chapter Four  
"Reason To Hope"**

It's strange, no matter how many times she tells herself not to, tells herself that it didn't make sense, every single time Christabella sees her son, her day is immediately better. And it doesn't matter that she effectively told three out of four people who seemed to care about the fact that she was suicidal; _again_, because the moment she walks into Mrs. Hudson's apartment and little footfalls come rushing towards her, she'd overwhelmed with joy.

There was a difference, she'd long realized, between not wanting to be a mother and loving her child. She didn't want to be a mother, and given the choice she would, hands down, do everything to not end up pregnant at all. But since she won't ever be able to return to the past and stop that from happening, she'd gladly take responsibility. She really doesn't have much of a choice in the matter.

Payton was precious, especially in the flannel and overall combo he'd decided to wear that day. Mrs. Hudson had given him cookies to eat and she was fairly sure that he had a glass of iced tea (huh, strange.)

He turns to look as the front door opens, and a smile immediately breaks out. He gets himself down from his chair, which is kind of cute to watch as he slips onto his stomach, and runs to his mother, who's crouched down and opened her arms wide.

"Hey, kiddo," Christabella says as she drags her son into a tight hug.

"Muma!"

She glances up to Mrs. Hudson, who has a slightly disappointing glare on her face, and frowns. Right, she's just gotten down from a pretty epic high, if she does say so.

Payton wraps his legs around his mother's waist the second he's lifted off the ground.

"Sweetie pie, there's someone I want you to meet. Yeah?"

Blue eyes peer up at her confused.

"He's very important," she continues.

"Best not let him hear that," Mrs. Hudson warns. "It'll go to his head."

Ana chuckles.

"We'll be off then. Oh, about moving back in. Me, I mean. And Payton, I suppose." She purses her lips before gnawing on the bottom one. "Er, the renovations should be finished within the week, so… yeah."

"Of course, Ana, you two are always welcome. Your lease hasn't expired yet."

"Right."

One curt nod and the Moriarty-Holmes duo leave the tiny flat and head upstairs.

"Knock, knock," she says as she pokes her head into the kitchen.

Sherlock sits alone at the table, his usual stance where his hands are pressed together and to his lips. He looks up at the words, his face softening when he spies the child. He stands quickly, almost stumbling which makes Christabella have to hide a smile, and steps toward the mother and child.

Payton glances at the stranger from between wet tendrils of black hair. He has an adorable shy look on his face, his blue eyes weary as he takes in Sherlock.

"Er—" she clears her throat "—Payton, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is—"

"We have the same name," Payton says.

She smiles at her son. "Yeah, baby boy, you do, don't you?" She turns her grin on to the much taller man. "Sherlock, this is Payton Holmes. Say hello, Payton."

The kid perked up at his name, a small smile on his lips.

"_O-si-yo a-da-do-da_."

Christabella peers curious down at her son and says something really rapid in that language. He replies just as swiftly.

"No, Payton, English."

"Muma!"

"Payton Hamish Holmes, do not talk back to me. He doesn't understand Cherokee. _Italiano o inglese_." She glances up at Sherlock. "You speak Italian, _v-v_? It was in your file."

Sherlock looks at her confused but nods.

He crouches then, down to Payton's level, and says something in swift Italian, to which Payton replies readily.

Christabella grins as she slips away to put on tea. She's grown fond of the taste, though she never liked it before. Unless it was iced and sweeter than molasses.

After the initial shyness, Payton blabbers excitedly, reminding Sherlock much of Anabeth. He talks readily of his Muma, and his daytrips with Uncle Mycroft, who often lets him have two scoops of ice cream even though Muma says he can only have one, he doesn't run out of fodder until long after the trio have finished their tea. Somewhere along the line, the conversation slipped from Italian to English.

Currently, they're sitting in a sort of strange way. Sherlock in his chair, Payton at his feet and Christabella leans against the chair, her head back and eyes shut.

"And Uncle Gabriel," Payton says with a cursory glance at his mother. Her eyes flick open at the name and she rolls her shoulders like she's trying to relieve the tension from her back.

"He takes me out, too. Sometimes. He'll pick me up from school in-inst-stead of Damien, or Muma. He's really cool. He takes me to faraway places – but I'm not really awowed to talk about it," he says when he spots his mother's warning glare.

"Why can't he talk about it?" Sherlock wonders, slightly worried, or what seemed like worried. "I am his father. I should know where this Gabriel character is taking my son."

"And I am his mother. You didn't know about him, or even that he existed until what? A day and a half ago? You're lucky that I'm letting you in the same room with him, let alone speak with him." She glares up, her icy eyes more tired than angry. "And for your information, _I_ trust Uncle Gabriel with my life. He and Nema were the ones who raised me. Whatever they do during their super-secret bonding time is their business. I don't ask. I just know Uncle Gabriel doesn't want them talking about it."

"There's no one in your family named Gabriel."

She shrugs. "I have my secrets, too. Don't forget. And I don't even want to know how you know about my family. Don't you have like a case or something to attend to?"

"Underground terrorist cell. Could use your help."

"Look, I don't speak to my family anymore. Let alone work for any government institutions. I'm a music teacher, I don't do the case thing anymore. I can't handle it."

Payton crawls over to Chris' lap and asks something in rapid Cherokee, he assumes. She responds just as quickly before sighing and hanging her head.

"Yes, of course, _bambi_. But-"

He cuts her off with another language Sherlock doesn't understand.

The mother rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm sure Uncle Mycroft doesn't want to be bothered."

Sherlock snorts. "Nonsense, Uncle Mycroft loves to be bothered."

Payton smiles up at his dad, a cheeky grin on his face, similar to the one Sherlock has when he gets his way. Anabeth's taken aback by it and suddenly she's standing, child in her arms and halfway across the room.

"Let's go to the park, _bambi_."

_A: I am very much aware of how crappy this chapter is, but I did that on purpose. And I'm doing it again. Hinting towards something that's a big key in the whole series but in a very minor way. It might come out in this book, but probably not._


	6. Chapter 5: Girl, Tell Me What's Wrong

**Chapter Five  
"Girl, Tell Me What's Wrong"**

Of course, no matter how hard she tried, Christabella could never quite escape Baker Street.

Mycroft did take Payton from her. He'd actually called her, as they played at the park, wanting to spend some long overdue time with his "favorite" nephew.

She didn't bother pointing out that Payton was his only nephew.

Mycroft however, did point out that he would be glad to take the kid off her hands for the night if she helped Sherlock with this terrorist thing (something he'd long been asking her to do, even though she kept refusing).

Reluctantly, she agreed, she still needed to talk to Sherlock alone, mostly about Payton, but also about, well, them. Not that "them" was a thing or even was in the realm of possibility. Them being a thing died the moment Sherlock did.

Mycroft thanked her and Payton jumped with joy. Undoubtedly, Anthea would be taking care of Payton, by the end of the night. Unless Mycroft was secretly good with kids outside of allowing them an extra scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

She'd delayed returning to Baker Street for as long as she could, opting to walk the half-hour. Really, who looked forward to spending time alone with their recently-not-dead… ex-lover?

What were they even?

They hadn't exactly been a romance or a love story. It just kind of happened. She hadn't even been in the realm of attracted to him. (Not to say he wasn't attractive. Christabella certainly saw the appeal.)

God, was her life screwed up. _She_ was screwed up.

It was ridiculous really.

221 came into her view all too quickly.

Upon entering, her first thought was to have a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson, but she doubted the landlady-sometimes-_not_-housekeeper wanted to speak with her at the moment and really she shouldn't delay the inevitable.

She heard his voice before she saw him.

"It's like a cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents, and drifters are irresistibly drained."

He'd thrown his red house coat over his clothes and was pinning and taping things to his wall.

"Sometimes it's not a question of 'Who?' it's a question of 'Who knows?'"

Chris leans up against the door frame, arms crossed. A fond smile tints her lips despite herself.

"I take it you still talk to yourself," she speaks up. Her voice is just as fond, almost as if she's reveling in the nostalgia.

He glances over briefly, his blue-green eyes meeting her light blue ones.

"Actually, I heard you come in."

She squints as she steps further into the apartment.

"You're paying attention to others now?"

He snorts. "Hardly, you weren't exactly quiet. I thought you were John at first."

"Yeah well… Mycroft has Payton for the night if I helped you in return. I'm guessing it's serious."

Sherlock gapes at her, his eyes wide with surprise. Did that mean she was going to get more emotion from him now?

"Mycroft has Payton for the night?"

"Don't seem so surprised. He is his uncle. You might not trust him-"

"There a plenty of reasons not to trust him," Sherlock says pointedly. "I haven't the faintest idea why you _would_ trust him."

Ana rolls her eyes. "I don't. But Payton does. And he has angels watching over him."

"You put a lot of faith into your religion."

"I really don't. To be honest, I think God's a douche. I mean, he's not around much anymore. If he ever really was. And even if he were, I'm fairly sure he wouldn't be too fond of me."

"You think far too much of Mycroft and far too little of yourself, Christabella," the detective says off-handedly as he pins a photo of a woman walking her dog to the wall.

"What? No, that's not- Look, bottom line; God's a dead-beat dad. And if anything happens to Payton, you can bet your ass that I'll be the first of a long line of people who plan on murdering him. You should be the second. Now – who are these people?"

"They're markers. If they start to move, I'll know something's up – like rats deserting a sinking ship."

"You put a lot of faith into your homeless network."

* * *

"You're taking my reappearance rather well."

Christabella snorts as she scribbles with Sharpie over one of the photos.

"Oh, I still want to strangle you; it just seems counterproductive."

Sherlock, who's sitting in his chair, flexes his brow and tilts his head in an "I can understand that," look.

"Still, you're taking it better than John."

"Right, because running off and getting high is a better reaction than bemoaning to my girlfriend and playing the "let's pretend he doesn't exist game."" She scoffs and falls into John's chair, throwing her legs over the armrest. "To be honest, I think I knew. Or at least, I was too far in denial to actually accept your death."

She purses her lips when he gives her a look to continue.

"When I – when I told John I wasn't really dead, he was standing before your grave, begging you not to be dead. We spoke for a moment and he had eventually asked me if it was possible if _you_ faked your death too. I looked off, for some reason I couldn't school my features long enough to lie, so I told him the truth; that I didn't think even someone a good as Sherlock Holmes could pull it off. But, I thought – I thought I saw you, or rather your ghost, but you didn't look like a ghost-"

"Ghosts don't exist."

Christabella turned her gaze onto him. There was something chilling and unsettling about it.

"There's a lot more in this world than you would believe, Sherlock Holmes."

Their gazes hold for a few more seconds before she drops hers, but not before a chill runs down his spine.

"Anyway… that should have cemented it, really, that I was so wrought with grief I was hallucinating. But it never felt like you were gone. Not really. There was always this… nagging feeling. Like those mothers who just know their kidnapped children are alive because they can feel it? I dunno. I guess, maybe – I don't know. I'm not entirely sure someone out there didn't sell their soul to bring you back. I wouldn't put it past John to do so. Maybe Anderson…"

She sighs one of those sighs that always sounds like she's going to continue, but she doesn't. Sherlock waits a moment before he speaks.

"That was me, in the cemetery, I mean."

Christa looks over at him in amazement. "What?"

"I didn't see you come in. But suddenly you were there."

He looks confused, like he wanted to say something, but didn't know if he should, or maybe he just didn't know how to.

"I suppose I should have known. I don't think Moriarty would have had someone else take his life. He's the type to do it himself."

For a moment, in the cemetery, he wasn't sure Anabeth had been real. He'd seen her body, there was no mistaking her for another, like he did with Irene Adler. He didn't know what to think at first. But then she started to speak, made a joke about _angels_ of all things, and John had heard so she had to be real.

"You know," she begins after a long silent moment, "there's times where I had wished that I had actually died in that moment. I felt so wrong and dirty. My marriage wasn't even a year old and I had already cheated on my husband. Not that he was faithful himself. God, no. He and Sebastian had been a thing long before I came back into the picture. So, technically, I was the other woman. I broke a promise I made to myself. I broke a lot of them on that case. It's why I quit in the first place."

She chuckles humorlessly.

"It runs in the family, you know. The adultery thing. It started with my grandfather. He, er, in college met this girl, became obsessed with her, even though he was already betrothed to another woman. Apparently, he married my grandmother, who was arrested by the FBI more times than I was ever picked up, like two years after his first wife was brutally murdered.

"My father cheated on my mother while she was away on a charity trip to Zimbabwe. Before she joined the Bureau. It was with a woman my siblings thought of like an aunt. It didn't even end when she returned and was diagnosed with the pneumonic plague. It wasn't until doctors had given up on her that he called it off.

"I didn't even know this. I didn't know any of this. Not even Nema told me. Of course, it wasn't her place. But I had to find out about it from some stupid prick journalist that knew way too much my fucked up sex life. It was a year ago, maybe? I don't even remember the guy's name. And then, come to find out that Alfie cheated on Chris? With an ex-boyfriend of his who I thought was still in Italy, but boy was I wrong."

She covers her face with a pillow and groans. "God, why can't I just die? Like really, is there any reason for me to be here anymore?"

When she says it this time, she doesn't sound serious, just exasperated.

"You know, I wasn't even sure Payton was yours. Not really, not until he was born. He had this head of thick black curls and blue-green eyes. And I just knew. He was so beautiful. I wasn't – I almost had a closed adoption. I almost gave away the most precious thing in my life. Even after Mycroft found out, or maybe he knew before me. That would explain why he was suddenly so protective of me. God, I wish you were there."

She looks over at him from behind the pillow, her features gentle. "You would've fallen, just like I did. Just like Mycroft and John and Gabriel."


	7. Chapter 6: What Became of all the Years

**Chapter Six  
"What Became Of All The Years"**

Sometime during the night, during a game of chess where Sherlock was dominating her, Christabella had fallen asleep on the couch.

She was too far gone to try and wake by the time Sherlock returned from putting water on for coffee. He finds her red knit blanket on his bed and drapes it over her.

He hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep so early until he'd scrambled to answer her phone when it rang around nine-thirty.

"_I hope the two of you are actually getting further on this case, and haven't been shagging this whole time, brother dear,_" Mycroft says in lieu of hello.

"What I get up to in the privacy of my own flat is not any of your business, Mycroft," he replies just as crudely, albeit softer.

"_No matter, Payton wishes to speak to Ana before bed._"

Sherlock glances at the woman, who looks peaceful in slumber. Younger, well, no. Younger than she looked, maybe, but now, she looked her age in slumber. He won't wake her.

"Unfortunately, she's asleep."

"_At this hour? What _have_ you been up to?_"

"Nothing, she's just tired. She's had a rough few days is all."

"_You then, get your child to sleep._"

Sherlock frowns… Oh what was it she said?

"I can't-"

"_Try,_" Mycroft sneers.

There's a scuffing sound and then there's a small, tired voice.

"'Ello, Muma?"

Sherlock lets himself grin, despite himself.

"Er, no, um, Muma's sleeping. Which is what you should be doing."

"But I can't, not wifout Muma's song."

_Right,_ he thinks. A lullaby.

…_how he only falls asleep after I've sung that stupid Kansas song to him three times. I don't think I can listen to that song anymore without going mad, I mean he couldn't have fallen asleep to like "Penguin" or Journey or something?_

"I don't want to wake your mother up. Surely you know how she is when she's just woken up—"

"Grumpy."

He laughs quietly. "Exactly. Can you do me a big favor Payton?"

"Uh-huh." And he can see the mess of black curls bouncing as Payton nods.

"Can you be a good boy tonight and try to sleep without Muma singing to you? If you can manage that, I'll… do something nice."

"Like what?"

"I dunno what it'll be. It's a surprise."

"O-okay."

He's not really sure how to end this conversation. Normally, he'd be rude and just hang up, but never let it be said that Sherlock was heartless with children.

Finally, he settles with; "I'll pass your love to your mother. I'm sure she loves you as well."

"Okay, bye-bye. Goodnight… Um, can I call you _Elo_?"

Sherlock frowns but consents. "If you must."

"Okay, goodnight, _Elo_."

"Goodnight, Payton."

He felt oddly at peace with the silence after the end of the call.

* * *

Ana woke hours later as the first rays of the sunrise filter through the sitting room curtains. The way she was lying, had the one band of pure light falling into her eyes.

She winces when she first wakes but then smiles when she sees the blanket covering her. She reaches where she last put her phone, only to find it gone. She sits up quickly, and after the initial wave of dizziness, checks to make sure she didn't end up lying on it.

She's halfway through her frantic search, when Sherlock walks in from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand.

"Have you seen my phone?"

"It was dying. I plugged it in," he says as he hands it over.

Chris nods knowingly. "Thanks."

She clicks the screen on, frowning when she reads the few texts she received.

"Damn, Daisha was stood up. I liked him too. I thought for sure he was better than that. Huh." Her fingers type something out swiftly then she's looking up at Sherlock in confusion. "Your brother wants to know what you said to Payton to get him to- oh my God, I didn't sing him to sleep. Why didn't you wake me?"

"Have you seen yourself in the morning?" he says dryly as he hands her his tea and steps up on the sofa beside her to look over. "Oh, he sends his love, by the way."

"Your brother?"

"Payton," he corrects.

Christabella sips at the tea, humming at its warmth. She looks up at him curiously.

"So, what _did_ you say to him? No one else has ever gotten him to sleep. Even the night you had returned, I sang to him, despite being in the middle of a date."

"I told him," he says, shrugging, "that if he could sleep without the aid of a lullaby, we'd do something… nice."

She smiles as blood colours her cheeks. "Fatherhood looks good on you."

Mrs. Hudson joins them, then, tray of tea and biscuits in hand, smiling at Ana when she spots her.

"You two are up early," she says as she sets the tray down.

"I honestly don't think he slept," Ana says with a slight yawn.

"I didn't," he replies as he plops down on the couch.

"Hey!" Ana complains, trying and failing to keep the mug from sloshing on her.

"Sorry," he says, barely glancing at her.

"No you're not."

"You're right. I'm not."

Mrs. Hudson smiles as she goes to leave. "It's like you never left."

Anabeth smiles at her.

* * *

Round about an hour later, Christabella wanders out of Sherlock's bedroom where she donned his "Purple Shirt of Sex" as she had called it so long ago now and her leggings she had been wearing the day before. Sherlock peers at her curiously, his eyes tracing over her figure pausing when he reaches the shirt. An indeterminable emotion crosses his face briefly.

"Is there a reason you're wearing my shirt?"

"Well, considering you made me spill tea down yesterday's t-shirt, I think it's only fair that I get to borrow one of your shirts. It's not as if I've never worn your clothes before."

Sherlock only raises an eyebrow and then he's back to looking for whatever it was.

Mycroft arrives with Payton ten minutes later. Payton rushes to his mother first, excitedly and tells all about his night and how Uncle Mycroft had let him climb up in his bed when he had a nightmare.

Both Ana and Sherlock both raised their brow at that, a concerned look shot in Mycroft's direction from both parents.

Mycroft shrugs at the comment, but the emotion in his eyes says that he was bothered by the fact.

Ana picks up Payton and sets him on her lap. She speaks to him in that language that's not Cherokee that neither Holmes brother understands. Payton replies just as swiftly which causes Anabeth to hug him tightly.

"You should've called me, Mycroft," she says glancing at the brother. "Payton, why don't you go see Papa while I see if Mrs. Hudson minds watching you for a moment, while I talk about grown up things with him and Uncle Mycroft.

The boy nods before he rushes over to his father. "Hello, _Elo_."

Sherlock looks down at the boy, there's a smile that's hardly visible on his face.

"Careful, _bambi_, don't blaspheme," Chris says as she walks out the door.

* * *

Of course, Mrs. Hudson graciously agreed to watch Payton for a (short) while and when Christabella returned from dropping the child off, the Holmes boys are elbow deep in a game of Operation.

"I _am_ on the case. Both Christabella and I are on the case-"

"Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," Christabella calls as she steps into the kitchen intent on a cup of coffee. "Not like my schedule isn't completely full as it is. Sherlock, would you like tea?"

There's a loud buzzing and Mycroft exclaims an "Oh, bugger!"

Amused, Sherlock glances to the girl in the kitchen. "Please," he tells her as he looks over the game. "Can't handle a broken heart – how telling."

"Don't be smart," his brother snaps.

"That takes me back. "Don't be smart, Sherlock. _I'm_ the smart one,"" Sherlock mocks.

"I _am_ the smart one."

"I used to think I was an idiot."

"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children."

"Oh, yes. _That_ was a mistake."

"Ghastly. What were they thinking of?"

"Probably something about trying to making friends."

At that, Christabella snorts loudly. "You two? Make friends?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "_Friends_. Of course, you go for that sort of thing now," he says at his brother.

"And you don't? Ever?" Sherlock asks in reply.

"If _you_ seem slow to me," Mycroft begins, "can you imagine what _real_ people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish."

"Oi! I am not a goldfish," Christabella calls out from the kitchen.

"Yes, but I've been away for two years," Sherlock says as he steeples his fingers in front of himself.

"So?"

He shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a… goldfish."

"I swear to my grandfather, Sherlock. Don't you dare compare me to a goldfish," Ana snaps as she brings him the cup of tea she promised. "I better mean more than that."

"Change the subject now," Mycroft growls as he stands. He steps to the fireplace and leans against the mantle.

"Let's play something different," Sherlock says as he flails his legs over the table and stands up.

"Really?" Ana says, looking between the boys. "One broken heart and y'all are quitin'?"

"You're one to speak, Anabeth," Mycroft snipes causing Ana to wince and drop her head.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says evenly as he can manage, which is to say it wasn't very even at all.

Mycroft turns his glare onto Sherlock who levels a warning look towards him.

"Looks like you found a goldfish yourself," Mycroft points out.

"Once again. I am not a goldfish," Ana says softly.

Sherlock breaks eye contact with his brother and wanders over to the table-turned-desk.

"Let's do deductions," the detective says as he picks up a woolen bauble hat and tosses it to his brother. "Client left this while I was out yesterday. What d'you reckon?"

"I'm busy," Mycroft states, which causes Anabeth to laugh full bodied laugh.

Both men turn towards her. She waves her hand in a "Don't mind me" manner.

"Oh, go on," Sherlock says deciding to ignore the outburst. "It's been an _age_."

Giving in, Mycroft lifts the hat to his nose and sniffs. "I always win."

"Which is why you can't resist."

"I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis…" Mycroft says rapidly but pauses when he sees Sherlock's growing smile. "Damn."

He throws the hat back to Sherlock.

"Isolated, too, don't you think?" Sherlock asks.

"Why would he be isolated?"

"He?"

"Obviously."

"Why? Size of the hat?"

"Don't be silly. Some women have large heads too."

Sherlock flinches.

"No, he recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside."

Sherlock pouts down at the hat. "Some women have short hair too."

"I did for the entire time Payton was in chemo," Ana says matter-of-factly. "Payton my sister, not Payton my son. I had my hair made into a wig and she wore it. It's a little weird now that I think on it…"

Mycroft stares at her weirdly. "Anyway, it's a balance of probability."

"Not that you've ever spoken to a woman with short hair – or, you know, a _woman_," Sherlock says with a very condescending tone.

"Anthea and I don't count," Anabeth adds, raising her hand like a schoolchild.

"Stains show he's out of condition," Mycroft continues, ignoring both of them. "And he's sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four…"

"Fiv-"

"Actually six." She shrugs. "I had a look. I actually almost missed it myself. But the bauble on the top has been resewn. Back when it was relatively new. You can barely tell, but the texture is off about the yarn that's attaching it."

"She's right." Sherlock throws the hat back to Mycroft.

"Of course I'm right."

"The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it."

"Eh, more like obsessive," Anabeth says. "I mean he repaired it six times, that's quite a bit for a hat. It's gotta be hard that he left it here. Tough really."

The hat gets thrown back.

"The earlier patches were extensively sun-bleached, so he's worn it abroad – in Peru."

"Peru?"

"This is a chullo – the classic headgear of the Andes. It's made of alpaca."

"Nope," Sherlock says with a knowing smirk.

"No?"

"Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive _if_ you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres."

"Of course you have. Why wouldn't you?" Christabella's voice is laden with sarcasm. "Anyway, more importantly," she glances at Mycroft. "You said he was anxious. Given that only the left bauble has been chewed, which shows he's of a nervous disposition, but he's also just a creature of habit since he hasn't chewed the right."

"Brilliant," Sherlock says just as sarcastically as Ana had been.

"Elementary," Mycroft says.

"Except you missed his isolation."

"I don't see it."

"Plain as day."

"Where?"

"There for all to see."

"Tell me."

"Plain as the nose on your-"

"_Tell me_."

"Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this, isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Not at all. Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."

"Exactly." Sherlock drops his gaze to the hat while Mycroft blinks confounded at his brother.

"I'm sorry?"

"I have a feeling this isn't about the hat guy anymore," Chris says to herself as she plops down in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock looks back up at his brother. "He's different – so what? Why would he mind? You're quite right." He places the hat on his head and shoots Mycroft a pointed look. "Why would _anyone_ mind?"

Mycroft lets his mouth hang open for a moment as he struggles for words.

"…I'm not lonely, Sherlock."

Sherlock spares a brief glance at Christabella who's staring at him with her head tilted then steps closer and intensifies his gaze on Mycroft.

"How would you know?" he asks before stepping away and pulling the hat off.

"Yes, back to work if you don't mind. Good morning."

"Right. Back to work."


	8. Chapter 7: It's My Fault, I Don't Care

**Chapter Seven  
"It's My Fault, I Don't Care"**

Sherlock's far too deep in thought to recognize that Christabella's speaking to him. Although, she does draw him out with a soft touch to his arm.

"Yes?"

"You should talk to John," she says softly.

He turns to look at her. At the moment she's two and a half shorter than him, but he's standing on the sofa. He notices for the first time, then, how much she's changed in two years.

Really it's the glasses the start it, but then he can't help but to notice all the little things that he wouldn't have had he been there to notice their gradual appearance.

For one, she's wearing glasses, gold semi-rimmed from Vogue. For another, she's put on a bit of weight. Not a lot, but her cheeks were fuller and she looked healthier. Her eyes were brighter, like they'd lost the sadness they held the last time he saw her. There were laugh lines around her eyes, something he never thought he'd see.

Even her hair looked healthier. Her bangs were gone and she hadn't straightened it, just let it curl naturally. She wasn't wearing make-up. There wasn't even a smear from the day before.

Had she been wearing make-up yesterday? No, she didn't.

To be honest, she looked younger, whatever that meant.

"Sherlock?"

He blinks, just faintly aware he'd been staring.

"Hmm? Yes?"

"John, you should talk to him."

"I tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear."

"What'd he say?"

"Fuck off." He looks back to his wall of papers.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that sounds about right. It's funny, really."

"How's that funny?"

Christabella shrugs. "I mean, think about it. When we met, I was very depressed and angry at the world for a plethora of reasons and John was well, chipper. I mean, he was happy for the most part. This time around it's kinda the opposite. Don't get me wrong, he's happy with Mary, and for the most part he seems well enough. But if you're, you know, you, you can see it. The pain and anger he has because of your death. I really haven't seen him myself since the morning I can home high and threw my tantrum. But I don't think his expression has changed much."

Sherlock all but rolls his eyes.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"I know you are."

"Right. You're having Molly – God, she must've had fun at a rave – Molly join you in crime solving right?"

He nods absently and Christabella takes it upon herself to end the conversation there. She leaves quietly, snatching up the large heather handbag on the coffee table.

Sherlock watched as she left, her body reading as resigned and disappointed.

* * *

The next time they meet, Sherlock's just gotten home. The container of fish and chips he's carrying is almost knocked out of his hands as both Payton and Christabella race past and up the stairs.

"Sorry," she calls as an afterthought as she takes the stairs two at a time. For a two year old, the boy's fast and already halfway up to John's bedroom by the time Christabella's reached the landing. "Payton Hamish, get back here!"

"You gots to catch me, Muma!" he calls to her teasingly and blows a raspberry.

Chris's chuckle is exasperated but light as she takes to the stairs. "Oh, you better hope I don't catch you _bambi_!"

Sherlock lets himself smile at the banter to which Mrs. Hudson remarks, "Admit it, you've already fallen for them."

"Hardly," he scoffs as he turns to her, his smile all but fading. "I don't even know him."

Mrs. Hudson tuts knowing. "I wasn't just talking about Payton."

He shoots her a strange look; tilted head and a scrunched brow, as she returns to her own apartment.

"Give it time, dearie," she calls back.

He continues to be confused as he climbs the stairs. Someone's stomping down the other flight (Christabella by the sound of it). They nearly run into the other, but Christabella manages to spin away at the last second, quite literally.

"Save me," she squeaks as she dives on the other side of the detective and pulls him into the flat.

"Wha-" But she continues.

"You're little… demonic spawn is… _it_," she says forlornly.

Payton bounds into the room then, hardly winded as he races to where his parents stand together. He slaps a tiny hand against Sherlock's leg.

"You're it!" he shouts as he goes to hide behind his mother, who'd backed herself up against Sherlock's chair.

He looks towards Christabella partially in amusement, but partially in confusion when she mouths the words "Play along."

Just as a smile graces his face, there's a commotion downstairs.

"Hang on," they hear Mrs. Hudson shout. "Who are you?"

Sherlock's already at the top of the stairs when Mary explains she's John's fiancée.

"Mary? What's wrong?" Sherlock inquires then, any trace of amusement gone.

Christabella appears by his side then, a confused Payton clutched tightly in her arms.

Mary pulls her phone from her pocket as she hurries up the stairs, showing them the messages she received when she reaches them. "Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip code."

Sherlock faintly registers the sharp breath Christabella pulls, he's too busy wondering why Mary can recognize a skip code.

"First word, then every third word," the detective says upon read the first message.

"'Save… John… Watson… Saint James the Less," Christabella says the moment she can read both messages. "I used to pass by that church on my way home from working the bar, the other way took me past Bart's. It's about a twenty minute car ride. Obeying speed laws, and all."

There's a heartbeat's worth of silence, where the basket of chips is dropped and then Sherlock's racing down the stairs followed by Mary and Christabella right behind them.

"Payton, stay with Mrs. Hudson," the mother growls as she follows the others out the door.

"What are we waiting for?" Mary asks, as they stand out in the middle of the road, rain pouring around them.

Sherlock steps into the path of a motorcycle. "This."

"Hurry," Christabella calls out to him.

* * *

The girl's scream, the one in the pink puffer coat and faux leopard fur snow hat, is possibly more piercing than the thought of John buried in the fire. In retrospect, he should've been surprised to see Christabella already there, pulling at the wood and branches, trying to get to John, but upon seeing the back of her red belted peacoat, Sherlock only felt relief as he finds a place beside her and starts pulling at the fire too.

John's barely conscious when they pull him out, he's blinking the last bit of the drug out of his eyes.

Sherlock looks up to give a thankful look to Christabella but she's shooting a warning look towards Mary, who just looks grateful of it all.

* * *

"It wasn't where I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, "Have you checked down the back of the sofa?"" Mrs. Holmes glanced over at her husband. "He's _always_ losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"

"'Fraid so," he replies.

Sherlock glares towards the kitchen.

Christabella laughs. "Payton's just like 'im." She shakes her head. "It's awful the number of times he comes crying to me, or Damien because he's lost something, only to find it hiding under the couch cushions."

"Please don't humor them," Sherlock whispers to her only to receive a glare in return.

Mrs. Holmes smiles. "Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses. Blooming things, I said, "Why don't you get a chain – wear them around your neck?" And he says, "What? Like Larry Grayson?""

With a glance at her watch, Christabella stands from her seat in John's chair. "Unfortunately, I have to cut our meeting short. I have to pick up Damien from the airport. It's always lovely to see you two." She walks the short distance to the couch and gives both parents a kiss on the cheek. "Perhaps, I'll take Payton to see you soon. At least he has one pair of respectable grandparents." She gives them a bright smile.

"You're always welcome, Christa," Mr. Holmes tells her with an equally bright smile.

She blushes at the nickname, and heads for her coat on the back of the door.

"Oh, Sherlock, Payton is napping in your room. He should wake up here in an hour or two. I may or may not be back before that. On the off chance he does wake before I'm back, spend some time with him. Please. He's always asking about you now. Go do you're secret 'something nice'."

She ties her coat's belt off and leaves with one last goodbye.

She runs into John on the second landing. They share a smile and Ana's continuing down.

"Ana?" John calls as he turns to her.

She pauses three steps below him and looks up.

"You said your dance partner," he says unsure because he just realizes this. "You don't dance anymore. You're a music teacher, in America. Who the hell were you seeing the night Sherlock returned?"

Christabella pursed her lips and shrugged. "They're not important. Just someone I know. Besides this was days ago. It's pointless now."

"Anabeth, I just - what has gotten into you lately?"

She shakes her head. "Why do you care, really? Is it for me? Or Payton? I know it's not Sherlock because he's never wanted anything to do with me."

"Then how do you explain Payton?"

She snorts. "Momentary lapse in judgment, he was horny and needed an outlet. I'm not entirely sure he was sober. He was going to die, we both were, maybe he just wanted to cross off "Lose my virginity" from his bucket list. I dunno. Take your pick. Whatever it was, we made a mistake that resulted in a pretty severe consequence and I'm paying for it while he gets to go gallivanting around the city like old times. I hope you do realize that he's more in love with you than he is with me."

John rolls his eyes. "Right. You're wrong, you know. Those months you were gone, it affected him."

"When I was gone?" She looks at him curiously before remembering. "Oh, that bout right after I married. Right, no I'm pretty sure it affected a lot of people."

"I can't count how many times I found him in your flat."

"John, just-just stop. Please." She wipes at her face and sighs. "I know what you're doing and I appreciate it. But this is something Sherlock and I have to figure out ourselves. And before you say anything, no, us getting together, whether for ourselves or the kid, is not a thing. Anyway, I have to pick up Payton's nanny from the airport."

"His nanny?" John questions.

Ana shrugged. "Damien Flaquer. He's this taller Dominican kid. Cute, great with kids, loves Payton. Payton loves him. He's actually taken to living with us. Damien, I mean. He's nearly always there. And there's more than enough room and you should've seen the apartment he lived in beforehand." She shakes her head. "I'm gonna go now. I'll see you in a bit." She pulls her keys from her pocketbook jingling them once.

"_Ciao_, John Watson."


	9. Chapter 8: You're a Habit Hard to Break

**Chapter Eight  
"You're a Habit Hard to Break"**

Out of everything she could've done, upon seeing Sherlock and John waltz into the detective's apartment, the very last thing he expected her to do was slap him. Hard.

"You fucking idiot!"

He presses the cool leather of his glove to his stinging face as he looks at her in shock. Behind her stood a darker skinned man (_Damien?_) about his height, though he looked to be about a decade younger than him, and a younger, darker girl. Both looked as surprised as he felt. He didn't have to glance at John to know his face held the same expressions.

"I'm sorry…?" he says hesitantly.

Christabella scoffs. "Like you're ever fucking sorry. What the hell were you thinking?"

He pulls his hand away, pressing the back of it when the heat wells up in his skin immediately. "I'm not sure-"

"Well, that's a first," she growls. "Greg called me. At what point did you think it was a good idea to-to-" she huffs in frustration. "You can't just rush into danger like that anymore. A bomb, Sherlock. It was a fucking bomb, and you just race to it like it's a giant trophy. Did you learn nothing after Jim? You have no idea what I went through. I can't lose you again. None of us can, and you certainly can't take John with you." At that point she turns her glare on John. "What the hell were _you_ thinking? You're supposed to be the sane one. He listens to you."

"Christabella, don't you th-"

She jabs a finger at Sherlock. "Oh, don't you start. I am not overreacting."

He gives her a placating look and pushes her hand down. "I was going to say, don't you think you're being rude?" He nods in the direction of her guests.

The girl waves a hand. "Don't mind us. I have a feeling you deserve it."

"Chris really doesn't get mad needlessly," Damien tells. "Frustrated, yes. Mad, not really?"

"Damn skippy," Christabella snaps as she crosses her arms. "Now." She levels her gaze with Sherlock's. "Are you going to explain yourself?"

"Are we interrupting?" a soft-voiced Mary asked.

"_Elo_!" Payton exclaims the moment he recognizes his father.

Christabella softens her face and looks towards Mary and Mrs. Hudson. "Not at all."

* * *

"So it's official now? He's actually asked?" Christabella asks Mary later at the engagement party. They're both sitting on the couch, the girl (who Christabella had introduced as Daisha Jackson) is on her other side, and Mrs. Hudson's sitting in a nearby chair.

Mary shakes her head, which makes Mrs. Hudson coo. Sherlock pours Mrs. Hudson a glass of champagne. Christabella petulantly avoids his gaze.

"Oh, I'm pleased, really, Mary," the sometimes-housekeeper says. "Have you set a date?"

"Er, well we thought May," Mary admits.

"Oh, a spring wedding!"

"Yeah. Well, once we've actually got engaged."

"Yeah," John adds.

Mary shoots a pointed look at Sherlock and gets a cheeky smile in return. "We were interrupted last time."

"Well, I can't wait." Lestrade raises his glass in a toast.

John, who has just put his jacket on, smiles round at him. Putting down the glass he just poured, Sherlock stands up and walks across towards the far window. Ana watches him, with an indifferent expression.

"You will be there, Sherlock?" Though the way Mary says it, it's more of a demand.

"Weddings – not really my thing," he replies with a look and a wink at her.

The door opens then, Molly and her fiancé, Sherlock supposes, walks in.

"Hello everyone," Molly exclaims.

"Aunt Molly!" Payton, who'd been sitting in Damien's lap on the floor beside Lestrade, shouts, which is a catalyst to everyone's greetings.

"This is Tom," Molly continues. "Tom, this is everyone."

Tom smiles. "Hi."

At the sound of his voice, Christabella looks over at him, flute at her mouth and snorts a mouthful of the bubbly liquid up her nose. Coughing, she drops her glass which shatters at her feet.

"Sorry," she mumbles, looking at the mess. "It's nice to meet you, Tom. Let me get this cleaned up."

She pulls a Sherlock and steps on the coffee table on the way to the kitchen. Her eyes, wide and haunted, meet Sherlock's as she passes him.

"Lestrade'll get it," he says. "Why don't you grab your coat and come with John and I?"

There's relief in her eyes as she nods and dashes towards his bedroom where she'd thrown her jacket before rousing Payton from his nap.

"Thank you," she says, as she joins the boys on the ground floor.

"Who was he?" Sherlock asks.

She shakes her head. "Someone who can't see me."

"So Molly…" John begins.

"Will be fine, for now. He's not… well, he's not good, but not bad. He's a hired gun, I think. I just know his picture." She shakes slightly, like she's scared. It doesn't settle well with either man.

"After Jim… I took over. A wifely duty. But then, I noticed ties were being cut, contacts taken out. It was little ones at first, no one noticed, then, but they would. So I stepped down, I used my pregnancy as an excuse. A child shouldn't be raised in such an atmosphere. Sebastian took over. I don't think…

"They were engaged before you returned. I know Molly never told anyone you were still alive. You're not his target. At least, I don't think. Sebastian and I never got along. If he is actually after anyone, if Tom meeting Molly isn't purely by chance, it'd be me."

Sherlock nods, but doesn't reply, taking her hand reassuringly instead. "Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes."

"Wait," Christabella says just before they walk out. With a smile, she pulls the deerstalker from a peg onthe coat rack and tugs it on to his head. "Better. Now, you can be Sherlock Holmes."

With a grin, Sherlock opens the front door and goes to meet the reporters. He's still grasping tight to Ana's hand.

John can only imagine the tabloid headlines tomorrow.

* * *

_**NO LOVE LOST HERE  
Zachary Pine; 7 November 2013**_

_LONDON, ENGLAND – It's no secret famed Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. But apparently neither is the romance between him and Christabella Moriarty._

_After a grueling wait in the freezing cold outside the door of 221B Baker Street, the detective, his blogger John Watson, and Christabella all took to the steps just out front to speak about the diverted terrorist attack on Parliament._

_Moriarty's presence wasn't expected, although it's not unusual; she often joins the Boys of Baker Street in their crime solving. What was unusual was how Sherlock and Christabella decided to keep their hands warm during yesterday's chilly interview._

_That's right, they were holding hands. Standing side by side as John stood on the step behind them._

_Unfortunately, we didn't get an answer on the topic of their relationship, John having pulled the two love birds inside once the topic of terrorism was exhausting. _

_Which begs the question; are they or aren't they?_


	10. Chapter 9: If Walls Break Down

**Chapter Nine  
"If Walls Break Down"**

"So, you don't seem like the Sherlock Holmes I've heard so much about."

Sherlock jumps at the voice, spilling his freshly made tea on himself as he does.

"Daisha," he sighs as he turns towards her.

She gives him a toothy smile and a little finger wave.

"I mean, all I heard about was this asshole extra virgin who got himself killed and prior to death was only sometimes a "sweetheart"." She actually uses finger quotes. "I guess I can't really say much since I've known you for less than six hours. But whatever. They say you show your true self in first impressions, or something like that. So does that mean you're Ms. Moriarty's bitch?"

Sherlock stares at her curiously, ignoring her question. "Where _is_ Christabella?"

"She's on this date thing that's not really a date, more like a mandatory luncheon with this mysterious dance partner that no one knew existed, let alone why she has one."

"Ah." He takes his tea and goes to sit in his chair, picking up a tabloid off the table beside it when he sits down.

"If you're not her bitch, then are you her knight in shining armor? Because you saved her yesterday. I mean, I've never seen her so scared and I've seen her behind a microphone. Don't get me wrong she's an angel once she starts singing and does she know how to work a crowd, but other than that," she winces.

"Shouldn't you be out doing touristy things?" He doesn't look up from his reading.

"Nah, there really isn't anything for me to see that I haven't seen already… So… I mean, I don't know what she did before she became a music teacher, but I know that it gives her nightmares. At least, that's what I think it is. I mean, she can talk about your death in vivid detail, but anything else, not so much. I mean, I get that she can't talk about it, State secrets and all that, mostly, but you would think she'd find some way around that. She won't even tell Missus Nemamiah, I mean you would think she would tell her mother…"

Sherlock looks up then. "Nemamiah?"

Daisha nods. "Yeah, that's her mother's name. Er, I meant grandmother. It's her grandmother's name. Her mother's name is Leotie. It's Cherokee for something, I don't remember. I mean, Missus Nemamiah might as well be her mother, I mean, she raised her. Missus Nema raised Ms. Moriarty, I mean. Missus Nema raised Leotie, too. "

"I thought her grandmother's name was Sylvia," the detective says with a confused tone.

"What? No, yes. Yes, it is," she says quickly, like you would if you were caught in a lie. She pulls her phone from her pocket, clicks it on, and then proceeds to fake a confused look. "Is that really the time? I promised Damien I'd take him and Payton to this little Italian place Ms. Moriarty and Mr. Doctor Watson took me the first time I visited."

"'Mr. Doctor Watson'?" Sherlock asked amused.

"Shut up," she squeaks as she leaves his apartment.

* * *

"Darling, sweetheart, love of my life?"

Christabella has her arms wrapped around herself tightly, her eyes are watering, rimmed with red, despite the cheery tone she used. Her hair is a mess, slightly oily. How many times has she run her fingers through her hair? Her nose is starting to run, or it has been for a while judging by the state of the tissue in her hand.

Sherlock sees all this as he steps out of the kitchen. Originally he had every intention of snapping back some sort of snarky reply, and maybe that's what she wanted, but upon seeing her he nearly drops his mug.

"Christabella?"

She chokes out a sob and rushes towards him, slamming into him and wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"I just can't be alone right now, please," she begs.

He doesn't say anything to her as he holds her with one arm around her shoulder, his other hand is slightly extended still clutching his mug. She doesn't say anything either, the only sounds she makes are snivels and whimpers as she draws her arms to her chest and curls into herself. And they stand like that. For a long while.

Christabella's calmed by the time Mrs. Hudson, who looks haunted by something, joined them.

"The glass in Ana's door is shattered," the housekeeper whispered as she takes the now cooled but still full cup of tea.

"What?" he questions and then nods at the girl in his arms. "How is she?"

"Asleep. She was crying? Do you think she knows? About her door I mean?"

"Possibly. It would explain why she attacked me with tears."

Sherlock shifts Christabella's weight, bends down to hook an arm behind her knees and holds her close to his chest as he takes her to his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson follows and is the one that pulls the bedding down. The detective lays her down and pulls the girl's stilettos (unusual for this "new" Christabella) off before he pulls the loose sheet and comforter over her. He brushes the hair from her face.

Mrs. Hudson looks at him with knowing eyes, though her face still betrays her worry.

"What happened?" he asks as he straightens and ushers the landlady out of the room.

Mrs. Hudson shrugs. "It's completely shattered. I heard Ana slam her door, and then storm up here, but there was nothing after that. The renovators don't work on Fridays."

"Renovators?" He's following Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

"Yes, Ana's redoing her flat, you know. Making it more livable, she said. Of course, Anabeth is a millionaire, as you know, so she's paying for it."

He glances sideways at the little woman. He did know, or suspected something as such, but it was never a fact anyone pointed out.

"I would've done it myself if I had the money."

By now they've reached the ground floor. There's tiny pieces of glass all over the floor of the foyer and the stairs leading down to the actual apartment.

"She offered to have mine done, but I said it was fine. And if you hadn't been pretending to be dead, I'm sure she would've offered to do yours, too." She says it with a biting tone that has him looking up at her.

She gives him a harsh indignant look before she disappears into her own apartment.

* * *

Later, after the glass was cleaned up and Sherlock finally helped himself to that cup of tea, Christabella creeps out of his bedroom with a yawn and a sleep bleary face.

"The increasing number of-" she yawns "-times I'm waking up in your bed with no recollection of getting there is startling."

"What happened?" he asks looking up from the blog post he was writing.

"Oh, no, that's alright go straight into interrogating me. Don't bother will how I'm feeling. I'm fine by the way. No need to be so worried. I know it's not every day that I come running to you of all people in tears, because I don't trust myself to be alone anymore. And last night? Earlier this afternoon? I don't even know the date anymore. How pitiful am I?

"Anyway. I came home and no one was there. And for a moment, it was like after you had-had jumped. After John moved out. Before I found out…" She wipes at the tears that cling to her cheekbones. "…about the kid. I almost – the last time I was alone like that, I-"

She shakes her head and goes to him, her arms outstretched. He sets aside his laptop and allows her in his lap, takes her in his arms. Her arms entwine around him and she buries her face in his chest. She needs the comfort, and perhaps that's the only reason Sherlock is allowing himself something so sentimental.

"You tried to kill yourself," he offers gently.

She nods, burrowing her face further into his chest.

"I'm sorry."


	11. Chapter 10: If You Stay by My Side

_A: So, we're halfway through this story! Woo! _

* * *

**Chapter Ten  
"If You Stay By My Side"**

They're still cuddled together when Damien, Payton, and Daisha return. Payton must've dictated he wanted to see his father, because he had bound into the room with a brilliant smile that reminds the detective of Christabella. He only falters, the boy that is, half a step before he rushes in between his parents.

Once he's swathed and cocooned, he begins to tell all about his day, becoming animated when he gets to talk about the trip on the Eye. It never ceased to amaze the boy just how much he could see from that high.

Christa tries to pull away and slip from Sherlock's lap, but both he and Payton hold her so she can't. She squints her eyes at them both.

The trio all faintly recognize that neither Daisha nor Damien have left yet. Chris is fairly sure they're both staring with adoring faces, and when Payton's not paying her attention, she flips them both the bird just in time for the sound of an automated shutter.

"That's your new contact photo," Daisha tells her.

Damien, who's made himself at home and plopped down on the sofa with his feet on the arm, smiles at the young girl. "Send that to me, will ya? I think I'll make it my lock screen."

"You're both insufferable," Christabella calls.

"And yet you still put up with us."

Daisha smacks at Damien's trainers. Once he moves his feet, after glaring at the girl, she makes herself comfortable in the newly vacant spot.

Of course, none of this is noticed by Payton, who is still head deep in his storytelling, or by his father, who is completely intent on listening to every word that falls from the boy's mouth. Christabella, as always, is caught with them, still not allowed to leave from her spot on Sherlock's lap. Giving up for the moment, she lays her head back against Sherlock's shoulder and watched her son in amusement.

After Payton reached the climax of his story, Christabella starts to squirm her way out of her family's embrace.

"Where are you going?" whispers Sherlock in her ear.

"Aren't we getting uncomfortable? I've been sitting on your lap for about an hour and a half. 'Sides, someone has to start dinner soon, unless you prefer to eat a tray of grease again," she whispers back.

"Relax, Chris, Dai and I have it," Damien whisper-yells as he pulls Daisha off the couch. "You're a terrible whisperer," he adds as an afterthought.

"Yeah," Daisha chimes in with a sweet smile. "We've got it, Ms. Moriarty. You relax with your family. While it's quiet."

"Fine, fine. Just remember Daisha, there needs to be some food on the table." She sighs. "Cuddle up, buttercups."

"Don't... ever say that," Sherlock complains, though he does tug her closer and lets his hand settle on her waist.

"Says the man that compared me to a goldfish."

He chuckles. "Mycroft compared you to a goldfish, I simply extended the metaphor."

"Mycroft's an as-"

"Muma!"

Christabella winces. "Right, yes, sorry baby boy, Muma's paying attention now. What else did Daisha do with you?"

And Payton launches back into his storytelling.

"Before I forget," Chris whispers five minutes later. "Daisha's doing an Open Mic night tomorrow night, before she leaves on Sunday. Same place as, well you know. I'm her keyboardist. Still debating on whether or not I'm going to perform. If I can work up the nerve…"

"And if I show up…"

"It might persuade me. I owe it all to you, you know." She smiles up at him.

At this point, Payton has given up on trying to tell them and slips down and into the kitchen to help with dinner.

"Why are you still using Moriarty's surname?"

"It's mine as well."

"I thought it was hyphenated."

"It is. But I no longer associate with the Quinn family. I don't even talk to Hannah. And, to be honest, I feel safer using it. I mean, is anyone really going to mess with Jim Moriarty's widow? Let alone her son."

He looks over her face carefully. Her smile is bittersweet.

* * *

Sherlock takes Payton for their outing the next day, while Daisha and Christabella practiced their numbers for that night. Damien tags along with Sherlock, sort of just trails after him.

It's a nice trip, for the most part, Payton sort of drags them around to his favorite places. They stop for ice cream (double scoop of mint chocolate chip for Payton and a single scoop of pistachio for Damien, Sherlock abstains) and after, Sherlock helps Payton clean himself up.

"You've gotten more on yourself than you actually ate," the detective says exasperatedly.

"Uncle Gabriel says I get that from Muma," he tells.

When he was cleaned and mostly presentable, the trio continues with their adventure, all the while Payton is chatting aimlessly about nothing in particular.

It was when they passed a pet shop, that he goes silent and stops in the window.

"Can we go in?" Payton asks timidly.

Sherlock nods but asks, "Doesn't Christabella have a dog? A Siberian Husky?"

Payton shrugs as he walks through the door. "Not anymore."

"Er, Lizzy passed away about six weeks ago," Damien whispers. "She and Payton were pretty close."

Payton's already across the store and looking at puppies. The clerk comes over after a minute and asks Payton if he wanted to play with one. He shakes his head. Sherlock catches his eye for a second and he's stunned by the amount of pure sadness lacing them.

"Can we go now?"

With a nod, Sherlock picks the child up and rests him on his hip.

* * *

The bar wasn't as crowded as it had been the last time Sherlock had been there. The night was going smoothly, Daisha and Christabella would be going on back to back. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to watch Payton for the night, allowing Damien the night to join them.

Mary and John had shown up and sat to the left of Sherlock while Daisha and Damien had taken to his right, Daisha leaving a seat between the detective and herself for Chris, who had yet to appear.

"You think she got cold feet?" Mary asks Daisha who shakes her head.

"No, she was intent on performing tonight. She's gotta personal connection to the song, or something like that. She'll be here… I think."

"She wouldn't have asked me to come if she wasn't going to show," Sherlock points out.

She did show, only twenty minutes before Daisha was scheduled to go on. She looked completely different from the last time. With her hair in an eighties rocker-esque style, albeit not quite a huge but laden with black feathers, white skinny jeans and dark brown-black wrap tunic cinched at the waist with a couple of black leather belts. Her eyes were lined with white and turquoise, her lips painted a red two shades deeper than her lace stiletto platforms.

"Sorry," she says as she sits down, glass of red wine in her hand. "My hair was murder, and I'm really going to regret it when I go to wash out all the product."

"You look fantastic. I mean really fantastic," Damien blabbers, his brown eyes wide.

She blushes and looks down. "Thanks."

Daisha rocks the stage with her fantastic soulful version of Heart's "Listen to Your Heart." She doesn't get a standing ovation, but that's mainly because the majority of the crowd is far too sloshed to stand up so they settle for catcalls and whooping.

There's a brief moment of silence as the keyboard is taken off and Damien joins them, taking the spot in front of the baby grand.

Christabella smiles to the audience, whose murmurs are slowly starting to drop.

"I'm not a big country music fan. I tend to stick with my indie and Classic Rock genres, occasionally I dabble in pop. The song I'm going to sing for y'all tonight is special to me. It's the first song I sang at my family's benefit concert we do every year and I haven't sung it since. It was released shortly after my first attempt at getting married had gone rather poorly and my sister had passed away. That was ninety… seven? So I sang it in ninety-eight which was the first year we held the concert. I was drunk or high. It did not end well."

She smiles and it's light, but there's a darkness behind it. "It's probably the only country song I've ever really enjoyed and I hope you do, too. Oh, quick introduction! Back there on the piano is Damien, he's a close friend." She looks to Damien and then to Daisha and nods.

Martina McBride's "A Broken Wing" has a solemn, bluesy sound to it. Chris stands, swaying slightly, with her head down, her hair falling and keeping her face from view as she waits for her cue. Her eyes were hollow and unfocused when the first few lyrics escape her lips.

"…_You're crazy for believin'  
You'll ever leave the ground  
He said, Only angels know how to fly…_"

There's a nervousness in her that had been absent the last time Sherlock had watched her preform. It wasn't a nervousness about preforming, more like a nervousness about preforming _this_ song. Like she was baring her soul.

The background vocals are interesting. Daisha has a more soulful voice, while Damien has a rougher bluesy sound which compliments the music and in a way each other, but neither really compliments Christabella's very indie voice.

"…_He went up to the bedroom  
Found a note by the window  
With the curtains blowin' in the breeze…_"

At one point her eyes focus, like she's returned to reality, as she sweeps her eyes over the audience, emptier now than it was before. She locks gazes with Mary for a solid second, both of them _knowing_. She smiles at John which turns to a beam when she gazes at Sherlock.

He nods and doesn't return the smile as brightly as she gives it, but returns it nonetheless.

"…_And with a broken wing  
She still sings…_"

The song ends with a more upbeat sound (and showing of Christa's ever impressive vocal range), although the lyrics leave you anything but.

Like Daisha, she doesn't get the standing ovation she deserves, but the applause is enthusiastic. Her thanks is quick and she leads the other two off the stage. Her pace is metered as she takes to the table, whose occupants had given the standing ovation for both performances. Sherlock's still standing by the time Chris reaches him, just like the day before she goes to him and wraps her arms tightly around him.

He hugs her shoulders and rests his chin on her head. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even cry, just stands there in the silence for a moment. She's smiling when she pulls back.

"Thank you."

He nods once. "You're welcome."


	12. Chapter 11: What's Going on Between Us?

**Chapter Eleven  
"What's Going On Between Us?****"**

It was only a matter of time. Of course they had to fall into a routine first.

Most nights they spent as a family. Christabella cooks. They eat together.

That is, unless Sherlock's on a case, or Christabella's practice runs late. And some nights Payton goes to bed early and Christabella's stuck singing "Child of Innocence" for an hour and a half and ends up climbing in bed immediately afterward.

The sexual tension had returned and amplified, not that it had ever really left. Their impromptu cuddle session on his chair proved that. There's a lot of wordless conversations.

Spectacularly, she started to dress as she did before, that is to say, she's beginning to dress in those expensive dresses again.

So it was no wonder that three glasses into their first night alone since Daisha left, Sherlock's pushed her up against the wall, lips locked in a heated kiss. Neither one is quite sure who instigated the kiss.

He has both hands on her waist, one beneath the soft cotton of her t-shirt, the other with a handful of it. She has one hand fisted in the front of his shirt and one hand tangled in his hair. The wall beneath her back is chilly, while Sherlock is hot on her front.

They kissed long after they became breathless, depriving themselves of oxygen. They're dizzy and gasping for breath every time their lips parted for even just the smallest fraction of a second.

It's not until Sherlock's arousal is pressed against her stomach does she push him away.

"Wait, Sherlock," she breathes.

"What's wrong?" he asks, leaning his forehead on hers.

"The last time we slept together, we were both intent on dying the days after."

"I do recall. I laid flowers on your grave."

She smiles, "Purple dendrobium orchids, I was there. They're my favorite."

"I know," he tells, as he sneaks a kiss.

"And I laid lavender, rosemary and yarrow on yours." She squirms and turns her head away. "Sherlock please." She sighs. "Look, I know you. You miss John. You want comfort. Companionship, something that Payton and I can't give you. And it was the same three years ago. With both of us. And we found it in each other.

"And I thought I was in love with you. And maybe I was. But I'm not going to fool myself into thinking that you feel anything close to love towards me. Sentiment has always been a disadvantage for you. But please, don't treat me as I have treated you. I am not strong enough for it."

He nods and steps back.

"I'm sorry," she continues, but she's already leaving.

"Just, tell me one thing, Christabella," he says, stopping her.

She turns her sight back to him, a soft pitiful gaze.

"Do you still love me?" he asks and he's completely serious.

Her face screws up for a long second, considering, then she smiles, slowly, gently. She presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

It's awkward the next morning. Their coffee dance, that waltz they had long ago remembered, is thrown off and they run into each other despite wanting to avoid the other.

Payton's presence, although the boy is completely oblivious to his parents as he chomps away at his breakfast, only makes matters worse. And instead of making things better, once Damien had taken Payton for the day, the tension is amped up to eleven.

Christa had a very off, day off of her now constant practices with that mysterious dance partner and Sherlock wasn't on a case.

"About last night," Sherlock begins, and the shoe drops.

She shakes her head. "Drop it."

"Christa-"

"I said drop it," she snaps, taking her coffee and returns to her own apartment, of which was finally done being renovated.

He lets her go, watches as she disappears down the stairs.

* * *

Three hours later, after listening to the first round of boring cases, he wanders down, shocked when he finds her door unlocked.

She's listening to Ron Pope's newest album. The fact that he knows this just by a few notes of a song is a hint to how much more he's been paying her attention than he thought.

The smell of oil paint saturated the air with undertones of cinnamon and brush cleaner.

He hasn't been down here since the new renovations. There's no real big difference in the floor plan, just that it's more open than before. It's more studio than apartment.

There's a mural in the works on the wall holding the fireplace of a forest. The parts that do look nearly finished are so completely realistic he can practically smell the cedar and sap and fresh dirt.

Christabella herself, looks just as beautiful, although she's covered in paint and her hair is haphazardly thrown in a twist and held fast by a paintbrush. Her face is covered in paint smears, mainly peaches and reds and blacks, but there was a brilliant blue swipe on the bridge of her nose that brings out her eye color.

She's in deep concentration. The kind where a crease forms in the middle of her brow, her nose scrunches up and the tip of her tongue pokes out between her lips.

He's not particularly quiet when he circles her to view the front of the canvas.

To say he was surprised by the painting would only be half right. Christa was a marvelous painter, the mural and the painting of Paris in the winter that hung over the sofa in his flat showed as much. What did surprise him was the content.

It was of them, their little family, sitting in front of his fireplace, a warm fire roaring in it. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged with Payton on his lap. It's Christmas time because Payton's holding a present and Christabella has a Santa hat on her head which is thrown back in laughter. She's leaning back resting her weight on her hands, her legs outstretched in front of her.

In his hand, Sherlock is holding a mug, of what he assumes to be hot chocolate based on the whipped cream on his nose. There's an almost imperceptible grin on his lips and mirth in his eyes.

The painting is photorealistic, just like the mural and snowy Paris.

She must be finished because she's signing her name (_C. A. Quinn_) with a flourish in the bottom right hand corner.

Despite the less than quiet entry he made, it must not have been enough because she jumps when she turns around. The palette in her hand is almost shoved against his shirt, but she catches herself just in time.

"Oh my – Sherlock!" She splays her hand over her heart. "You frightened me."

"Sorry." He looks back over shoulder. "It's very good."

She looks and blushes in embarrassment.

"I, er, I just – I had a dream, a few weeks ago."

He nods, understanding. She meets his eyes and blinks once, tilting her head.

"About last night," she begins. "I didn't mean – I was a little harsh with you and I didn't mean to be."

He shakes his head. "You had every right to be. I shouldn't have put you in such a position."

"It wasn't just you. What I said about you not loving me, I didn't mean it like that. I know you care for me, as you always have. But caring for someone and loving them isn't the same thing."

She smiles gently at him, lifting her free hand and placing it on his face. She rubs her thumb across his cheekbone, smearing a touch of phthalo green paint there.

"Last night, you asked me if I still loved you." She takes a deep breath. "My answer is no."

His face drops, a sorrow growing in his eyes. He pulls his face from her hand. He's anxious to leave, but Christabella still has that knowing smile she has when she's beat him to solving something.

"Before you break your own heart," she says, "will you listen? My answer is no _because_ before I faked my death, before you faked yours, I cared for you yes, but like a girl cares for the cute boy she grew up with. A school girl crush, something that doesn't deserve the word love. I said no because you can't still do something if you weren't doing it before. I didn't love you, not then, but that doesn't mean I don't love you now."

Like the night before, she leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek, right beneath the smudge of green.


	13. Chapter 12: Stealin' One More Kiss

**Chapter Twelve  
"Stealin' One More Kiss Tonight"**

For her birthday, which was just a few days away, Anabeth decided on something simple this year.

For Mrs. Hudson, she got a beautiful little necklace. For Mary, a pair of earrings. As always, for John she got a couple of sweaters. For Damien, she bought a laptop to do his studies on. Of course, Payton got his pick of things he wanted, which ended up being a shopping spree in the Disney store.

And for Sherlock, well, the simplest of them all: she gave him music. Or at least that's what she wanted to do.

Rubbing her temples, she sighs at the mostly blank sheet music before her. She'd been working on it for a week and yet, she still could not piece together the right notes.

"Take a break."

She glances over her shoulder and grins at Sherlock. "Easy for you to say, you don't have a deadline to finish a composition."

He sits on the bench next to her and takes her hands in his.

"You're trying to force it, forget about the deadline, and just let go."

"I swear if you start singing "Let It Go"…"

"Oi, that's Payton's job."

Ana smiles. "Right. How could I forget?"

"Here." He drops her hands and stretches his over the ivory keys.

The melody he plays is soft and sad, but she recognizes it. Although she almost misses her cue.

"_Sweet love, sweet love  
Trapped in your love…_"

Sherlock's gaze is fixed on his hands as he plays, but Ana can see how he mouths the words she sings.

At some point, she brings her hands to meet his and plays the part of the violin. Their hands brush and fingers tangle. A bubble forms, surrounds them in a clingy embrace. Her eyes fall shut and the moment the blue is lost from sight, she feels Sherlock peeking at her.

They sway along to the music. Her breath ragged from singing so emotionally, but his is a mirror of it. She drops her hands, allowing them to curl and cup the air she strengthens her voice.

"…_suddenly the moment's here  
I embrace my fears  
All that I have been carrying all these years  
Do I risk it all?  
Come this far just to fall?_"

Her eyes flicker open and finds Sherlock's boring into hers. There's one line overall, despite the volume between her and the piano, that sticks out as he continues to softly sing the lyrics. Perhaps because of the truth and fear that flicker through them as he says them.

"…_I am terrified to love for the first time…_"

She catches her breath as the last note echoes through the apartment. They remain staring, nearly unblinking. She can feel his breath on her face, soft little mint scented puffs.

And much like that night weeks ago, neither knows who leant in first, but the kiss is just as graceful and passionate as the song they shared.

For her birthday, which was the best one yet, Anabeth received something simple this year.

From Mrs. Hudson, a homemade cake. Mary and John offered to watch Payton for the weekend. From Damien, she received the best home cooked meal she'd had in a very long time. Of course, Payton got her a dozen roses and a silver tanzanite pendant, which had matched the Claddagh ring his father had given her three years prior.

From Sherlock, well, the simplest of them all: he flipped the Claddagh ring (_right hand, heart pointed towards her wrist; dating_).

And if Sherlock played Christina Aguilera's "Bound to You" on the violin, no one said anything.

* * *

The relationship between Sherlock and Christabella really didn't change much. The only obvious thing was the fact that they now went out of their way to touch the other; a hug goodbye, a kiss good night, holding hands while they watched Payton in the park that one Sunday. But that was it.

Truthfully, it wasn't that big of a change. John, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't even noticed the shift.

They were on a case, something that in retrospect was simple. It had been one John had grabbed off the blog.

Sherlock had introduced them (John and Ana that is) as "John Watson; my blogger, and my (he hesitated) girlfriend Christabella Moriarty."

At first, John hadn't thought anything of it, the auction house director had been _leering_ creepily at her. But then he saw the beaming grin on Ana's face.

He'd told Mary of his discovery that night. She had laughed and put her magazine to the side.

"It's about time."

John chuckled. "You should've seen Ana smile. You would've thought Christmas came early."

"I bet," Mary replies with a smile only half as brilliant as Anabeth's had been.

"I wonder how long they've been together," he says as he climbs into bed.

"Probably right after her birthday," Mary replied as she flicks off the light. "So round a week? That's when they started with the public affection."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson doesn't find out for weeks. It's not until she and Christa go out Christmas shopping that she realizes.

"I'm not sure what to get Sherlock, this season," she says as they peruse some expensive clothing shop. "Any ideas?"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. "Who knows with him? What did you give him for your birthday?"

"I composed something. A piano piece, I think he might have converted it to violin."

Mrs. Hudson coos. "You're a sweetheart. Is that what he played at your party?"

Chris blushes and shakes her head. "No, that's – that's – I think that was his way of telling me I love you, or the like. That was the song he played, it was the piano bit mind you, a few days before. When he asked me out. Well, I say asked out, basically I couldn't compose and there was this spontaneous duet and then we kissed and… _you know_. I mean it wasn't officially, official until my birthday, that when he flipped my ring 'n' all. And I'm rambling again aren't I? I'll stop… eventually."

The landlady gives her a grin. "Payton must be happy."

"I don't think Payton knows to be honest."

"Perhaps you should tell him."

"I'd have to know if we'd last first. I mean it's nice and all, and Sherlock is definitely one to put his whole being into something he believes in, but does that mean us? I mean, if it was John, well, I'm actually surprised it wasn't them. I mean I thought for sure… I know Sherlock and I had something between us, back then. It wasn't love. It can't be. 'Cause I love him now and I felt differently back then. Do you think he really loves me? Or is it just an infatuation?"

Mrs. Hudson pats her shoulder gently. "I'm sure he does."

"You don't sound confidant."

She grins, "Who can tell what's in that brain of his?"

* * *

Christabella had met Sebastian Moran her second week in London. She'd just settled into her cover as burlesque dancer Anabeth Ryder. She didn't know who he was at the time, other than a soldier and a politician's little brother.

They got on well, surprisingly. Went on a few dates, none of them ever went anywhere. There was something there, between them and neither knew what it was, although both were certain it wasn't anything romantic.

That is, until they ran into a certain someone.

"Jim?" Sebastian had crowed as they passed him. He had sounded happy and jovial and Ana, not having seen the man in question, plastered a more than genuine smile on her lips and turned to face him only to drop both her smile and the shopping bag that held a new vase for her mother slipped from her fingers.

"Oh," Anabeth gasps. Her eyes go wide and she takes a step back. "You…"

Jim turns his brown eyes on her in shock. "Annie-belle? Is that really you?"

She blushes at the name, and nods. "Yeah, it is."

"What are you doing in London?" Jim asks and for the time Sebastian is ignored.

It wasn't until after she'd moved into her flat on Baker Street did she realize that Jim had sent Sebastian for recon and purposely dragged her to the shop that day.

It was a mutually assured destruction.

Sebastian, however, never realized how obsessed with "Annie-belle" Jim was and none of them really expected how jealous the others could get. It did result in an interesting sex life.

Chris should have realized, upon Sebastian learning of not only their marriage, but the fact that Ana, little sweet Annie-belle, the most kind and compassionate woman he's met to date, killed his heart's desire (his words, not hers), well, he developed a bone-deep hatred for the American.

Maybe if she realized that, she would've seen it all coming.


	14. Chapter 13: Are Those Tears in Your Eyes

**Chapter Thirteen  
"Are Those Tears in Your Eyes?****"**

It's times like these, where Christabella finds herself knee deep in snow, that she misses the eclectic but warmer weather of Charlotte.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't knee deep, and it only counts as snowing in the sense that sprinkling counts as raining, but still _snow_.

Christmas was just a few days away. She was out shopping for those few last minute gifts that no matter how well you plan, still rear their ugly head the last three days before Christmas.

And maybe she got distracted at Tiffany's &amp; Co. for a touch too long (so Sherlock called to make sure she was okay) but she was on her way home now.

It was twilight, the last few dregs of sunlight streaked through clouds and gave normally grey London a pinkish tinge (that was orange with the help of the street lamps). The snow looked like glitter falling through the air.

And despite the cold, Christabella had decided to walk and bask in the beauty that she would paint between the winter holidays.

Of course it had to be that the moment she rounded the corner of Baker Street, she's grabbed from behind a rag (seriously chloroform?) covers her mouth and nose and a syringe (really, one sedative wasn't enough?) is plunged into her neck. With it all, she's just barely rendered unconscious.

* * *

She wakes to a drenching of icy water and a harsh slap to the face.

The shock of it stuns her for a moment, but then she remembers the abduction. There's a sudden whoosh of fire catching and she opens her eyes just in time to see the ring of flames complete just to the right of center. The heat licks at her skin, though the flame is nowhere near, there's something about it – something unnatural – that runs a shiver down her spine.

"Oh, look at you _Annie-belle_. Finally at my mercy."

She groans and blinks through the brightness of the flame, the area around it is pitch, as dark as a moonless midnight. Just on the other side of the circle is none other than the devil himself.

Well, perhaps Lucifer would've been kinder.

"You," she growled.

"Me."

Sebastian Moran stands as distinguished as ever in what looks like an impeccable gray three piece suit, passing a long, familiar, silver knife between his hands. His hair is slicked back as always and it looks almost plastic in the low lighting.

"Jim told me of your… _angelic_?… problem. Do you know how hard it was to capture you? All the meticulous planning that had to go into getting you here?"

She grits her teeth and glares at him defiantly. She rolls her shoulders back, the tension there almost painful.

"Let me assure you, it was quite a lot. It was mostly Jim, you know, in case you went against him."

"What do you _want_?" she snaps, tugging at her bonds, the wire cutting into her skin.

"I just want my Jim back. That's all," he says causally throwing out his hands to the side and leaning forward a touch.

"Sorry, Sebastian," she spits. "Jim is dead. I killed him myself."

He nods and begins to walk around the outer edge of the ring, almost close enough to let the flames caress his pant leg. Christabella watches but doesn't move her head.

"I know, you see, that's why you're here. You took something I love from me, an-"

"I loved him, too!"

"But did you?" he shouts, the words echoing through the large room. Christabella jumps, the chair she's tied to creaking. "Did you really love him? Like I loved him? I don't think you did. You did murder him in cold blood."

"He was a monster. He needed to be stopped."

He laughs a humourless laugh.

"Oh, you know a thing or two about monsters, don't you? It's in your blood. How do you sleep at night know that you should be killed for being the abomination you are?" Sebastian's voice is dripping with disgust and loathing. "And what do you tell Payton?"

"You leave my son out of this. He has nothing to do with this. You want revenge?" she gasps. "Then kill me."

He chuckles again and it's a dark sound that sends shivers down her spine. He starts walking again, his shoes tapping on the stained concrete floor. Flicking her eyes over, she can see the smug look on his face and the hatred in his eyes.

"Now, see. How is that fair, _Annie-belle_?" He cocks a brow, turning his face completely towards her.

She doesn't answer.

"It isn't. You – and Sherlock Holmes – took my dear Professor away from me. It's only fair that I take something as equally as precious from you."

He's standing in front of her now, a sickening grin painted on his lips.

"And this," he waves the blade in a teasing fashion, "only makes it easier." He gives her a smile. "Enjoy what little time you have left. Oh, and answer your phone, it's been driving me crazy."

He turns his back towards her as he leaves.

"I swear to all that is Holy, Sebastian Moran, if you touch my son, if you even think about touching a hair on his head, I will kill you! I will boil you from the inside."

"Looking forward to it, Christabella."

"You bastard!"

The moment the door slams shut, the sprinklers come on, dousing the flames. She's plunged into darkness and has to wait for her eyes to adjust before she attempts to escape. It takes three minutes and forty-four seconds to escape her bonds and another two minutes before Sherlock answered his phone.

"Oh, Christa thank-"

"Where's Payton?" she growls.

"I-he's fine. Where are you? You've been gone fo-"

"It doesn't matter. Where is Payton?" She starts to the door her heels clicking sharply, though it's muted by splashing.

"He's safe. He's with Molly and Tom. They took him to see Frozen."

She shouts in frustration, slamming open the door.

"In what world, Sherlock, is it a smart idea to leave my son in the care of the man who's been hired to kill me after I've gone missing for God knows how long? Send Mary to fetch him."

"Chris-"

"For once in your life, Sherlock, don't think, don't argue, don't reason. Just do as I ask this one time. Have Mary go get Payton, she comes off as the least threatening. And tell her – tell her," she swallows, "tell her it's just like Poughkeepsie."

"Er, okay."

"Good. And Sherlock? I love you."

She hangs up.

* * *

Sherlock stares at his phone for a long second before he turns to face all the expectant looks.

"Mary, can you go retrieve Payton please?" he asks as calmly as he can muster.

Mary nods, the concern in her face is only more evident.

"And Ana?"

He shakes his head. "She didn't say anything. Just asked about Payton and told me to tell you it's just like Poughkeepsie."

The look in Mary's eyes hardens and she leaves with a nod and nothing else is said.

* * *

Sherlock stays awake, clutching tight to Payton as the boy sleeps, blissfully unaware his mother could be in danger. Damien and Mrs. Hudson are leaning against each other on the sofa fast asleep. Neither could be roused, just completely exhausted from the excitement the last two days.

Mary had dragged John to bed sometime around one-thirty in the morning, pulling him down the stairs and to Chris's (which is more like Damien's now) apartment.

Christabella doesn't get home until nearly three am the morning of Christmas Eve. She's battered and a little worse for wear and there's a cut above her eye. Her dress is torn and she's carrying her scuffed up heels in her hand. Her stockings are more runs than nylon and there's an eighty-five percent chance that's not her blood staining her peacoat darker. Her hair's a mess, filled with grease and blood and black feathers.

"You should see the other guy," she teases, albeit not very light heartedly.

That's okay. Sherlock's not amused.

"Where were you?" he asks gently, and it reminds her of how John always thinks she's going to break with just the right phrasing.

She shakes her head and, with a sigh, says, "I don't want to talk about it now. Not ever really. I just want to shower and climb into bed with my boyfriend, who might actually be more sane than I am at the moment." She gives him a small smile. "Why don't you put the kid to bed while I shower?"

He nods with assent. "John and Mary are staying in yours."

"Good," she says. "But they don't have to. Gabriel's coming in tomorrow. Looks like you'll finally get to meet my favorite uncle."

* * *

Christabella's wrapped around him ten ways to Tuesday the following morning. Sherlock doesn't mind. It just means she's safe and home.

He doesn't let go, doesn't want to let go either, preferring to let himself tighten his arms, burry his face in her cinnamon scented hair and let himself be reassured by her presence. But the soft laughter from the kitchen disturbs him and pulls him out of her embrace.

The moment he steps into the kitchen, a mug of coffee is pushed into his hands by a short brown-haired, golden-eyed man.

"Who are you?" he asks after a moment.

There's a mischievous glint in his eyes and a swelling sense of power almost coming from the man, as he sizes the detective up, that both send a shiver down his spine.

"Gabriel," he says at last holding out his hand.

Sherlock takes it and shakes firmly.

"You must be Sherlock. Lovely to finally meet the man who's stolen my little niece's heart. Christie talks about you all the time. Mostly bad things."

"That sounds like Christa," he says.

Gabriel laughed and returns to the pancakes cooking.

"Morning Mary. John."

Mary smiles in greeting and John nods, but he looks like he just woke up.

Payton is face first in a plate of pancake covered in fresh fruit, whipped cream and chocolate sauce.

"Morning Payt," he says making his way over to his son and ruffling his hair. He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head, noting that he'll need a haircut soon. "Who gave you all that sugar?"

Payton takes a bit, covering his lips in a light brown mix of chocolate and cream.

"Uncle Gabriel."

Sherlock looks over at the uncle to find a bright cheeky grin.

"Gabe?" The voice comes from the bedroom, sounding less like Christabella and more like a ball of pain and sleep depravity.

Gabriel leaves the stove and leans to look down the hall. "Yeah, Christie?"

She appears a moment later, having thrown Sherlock's button up from the day before on and his blue dressing gown. She'd pulled most of the feathers from her hair, but had fallen asleep with it in a messy wet bun so now it was less than mostly dry and falling from her hair tie. Her cheek was bruised and swollen and the cut on her forehead looks worse than it did the night before.

"You look like shit," Gabriel observed.

"I was kidnapped yesterday," she groans and falls into his arms. "What did you expect?"

He pets her head a couple of times, mockingly, but then rubs between her shoulder blades. She turns her head to look at those at the table.

"Morning guys."

"Morning," they reply in modest unison.

"Where's Damien?"

"He went out this morning, something about family time?" Mary responds.

"Figur- _ow! _Uncle Gabriel be careful, I'm bruised, my – they're – they need to heal."

He sighs. "You'll never learn, will you? _You_ need to be more careful. Here," he presses two fingers to the ridge of one shoulder blade and drags them to the other before splaying his hand flat once more. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you."

He kisses her forehead. "Good. Now, I have pancakes to get back to."

Christa's eyes light up at that. She's a little perkier when she plops down into her usual seat beside Payton.

"Morning, _bambi_. Are those Uncle Gabe's pancakes?"

Payton gives an over exaggerated nod and hold out his fork for his mum to take a bite. She leans in and closes her lips around the bite with playful "homp." The moan that sounds from her is almost pornographic.

"God, I missed these."

Gabriel chuckles as he places a plate of pancakes in front of her.

"I think we got that sweetheart."

She sticks her tongue out as she picks up her fork.

* * *

After a very torturous breakfast ("Did you really nearly-?" "_Gabriel_, what did you tell them?" "Oh, just a couple stories about a fledgling Christie.") and after Damien had returned and taken Payton for the day, thinks take a serious turn.

Christabella pinches the bridge of her nose. "Stop staring at me, I was kidnapped, not tortured."

Mary's the next to speak. "So, who was it?"

"Sebastian Moran – yes, I am well aware his brother tried to blow up Parliament – he wants retribution for Jim." Chris rolls her eyes. "He knows." Her eyes flick to the gold of her uncle's. "Jim told-"

"I _told_ you that boy was no good," Gabriel snaps.

"Yeah, and people do stupid thing when they're in love." She glares at him. "Alright? Please don't start this shit again. You've no idea what I put myself through daily because I was a stupid, naive sixteen year old who just wanted to feel… wanted." She hangs her head.

"I- Sebastian has my blade. I don't know how he got it. He's protected against us, I couldn't find him last night. He's done his research. He threatened Payton's life last night, and he's pretty set on taking him from us. He'll most likely try when he's with, er, Molly or Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson," she looks at Mary knowingly, "Or Mary."

Sherlock reaches across the table and places his hand on Christabella's, working them out of their fists. She looks up at him as they twine their hands together. He can see the tears in her eyes, though she tries to hide it.

"It'll be alright."

But she doesn't believe him.

John perks up. "What about Damien?"

Gabriel shakes his head, his gold eyes piercing. "Don't worry about Damien. He can handle himself."

Chris nods. "I'm very particular about who I want taking care of my child."

"Evidently not that particular," Gabriel snarks.

"Uncle Gabriel, I love you, I really do. But you can be a bag of dicks sometimes."

"Huh. It's funny. You're mother said that to me about a week ago."

"Must be where I get it from."


	15. Chapter 14: There's Something 'Bout

**Chapter Fourteen  
"There's Something 'Bout December"**

Christmas Eve was spent mostly in the kitchen. Gabriel and Chris shooed everyone out once they were done talking, leaving Sherlock, Mary and John to decorate Christabella's flat for the Christmas party.

Gabriel was on baking the pies (the whole townhouse smelt of apples, pumpkin, and cinnamon), being a pastry chef/baker or whatever he called himself these days. Christa spent most of the day baking cutouts and gingerbread men. Although, she did leave Sherlock's apartment for her own around noon to start with the turkey.

Gabriel enlists the help of Mary, Payton and Damien, when they return, to frost and decorate the cookies once they were cool. Between Payton and his uncle, more cookies are eaten than decorated.

Downstairs, Sherlock and John fuss over the decorations as Mrs. Hudson helps with dinner.

"It's nice of you to host this."

Chris smiles over at her landlady. "I think, after everything that's happened, we need something sweet. Besides, it's the first Christmas Payton, Sherlock and I will have as a family. Of sorts."

"Did you figure out what to get him?"

Christa smiles and taps her nose.

Mrs. Hudson's reply is cut short by the sound of the doorbell.

Chris eyes flick towards the clock, but it's a little too early for guests to arrive. "I wonder who that is."

She needn't have worried. It was a little old Cherokee woman, arms laden down with packages and gift bags.

"Nema!" she shouts.

"Christie, _a-yo-li_," Sylvia Mercoletti greets cordially.

"I can't believe you're here."

"Gabriel called me. You have some 'splainin' to do."

"Come in, come in." She steps to the side and ushers her grandmother down to hers. She pauses before going down. "Go ahead and put those under the tree. I'm going to go get Payton."

* * *

The party goes off without a hitch. Sherlock doesn't deduce Molly into tears nor does he shock Christa with a surprise gift.

Apparently, Nema, who's warmly welcomed by everyone, hangs up a spring of mistletoe when no one's looking.

Molly's the first to get caught under it, along with Damien. The pathologist burns a bright red when Damien leans in and kisses the apple of her cheek.

Sherlock is next, Payton sitting on his hip as they waltz over to the counter for a plate of cookies. Damien is the one that calls them out, Payton doesn't hesitate to place a big slobbery kiss on the corner of his father's mouth. Sherlock sputters but smiles and kisses the kid's temple.

John might have purposely pulled Mary under it (the same with Tom and Molly.)

Mary and Gabriel are wholeheartedly in a conversation about his pumpkin pie when Sylvia shouts out to her brother-of-sorts to look up.

"C'mon sis, her fiancé's right there," Gabriel complains.

"It's tradition," Nema shoots back. "You can't break tradition."

Gabriel smirks, but glares at the woman before he dips Mary and presses a loud kiss to both of her cheeks.

The little plant doesn't cause too much trouble after that, until Gabriel requests that Chris grab her guitar so he can play.

"My harp's here, sure you don't want to play that?" she asks with a devious smirk to rival his that morning.

Sylvia and Damien crack up laughing at like it's some inside joke that's long forgotten.

"I mean, you have already spoken to _Mary_ today," Damien adds.

At this Mary laughs like she understands.

"Alright, that got old the first time," Gabriel complains.

"I'm pretty sure it's still hilarious. You're the one that taught me. Quit being such a cliché, and it'll stop being funny." She shrugs and heads for her bedroom.

"Nemamiah, I can't believe you'd let your daughter speak to me like that," Gabriel calls over towards his sister of sorts, but it's ignored (mostly) because Lestrade calls out, "Oi! Sherlock!" and jerks his head up.

The detective, who was on his way back from putting away empty cookie plates and glasses in the sink, passes under the mistletoe the moment Chris does. She quickens her step slightly, but Sherlock catches her wrist with a small smirk and spins her back to him, the skirt of her sweater dress flaring out slightly. She giggles at the move, but slips her arms around Sherlock's neck as he leans down to kiss her.

Molly and Lestrade both squeak at the kiss, not having expected something so forthcoming. Gabriel and John, both whistle the moment the kiss hits the five second mark. Nema and Mrs. Hudson both coo sweetly. But perhaps the best reaction comes from Payton, who sits on a smiling Mary's lap. He squawks and ew's before comically closing his eyes and presses his fingers to them.

Christabella pulls away with a chuckle. "I guess that takes care of that. Merry Christmas," she calls flippantly over her shoulder.

* * *

The night continues with Christmas crackers and presents and music (from the Mercoletti-Angeles-Quinn-Moriarty-Holmes? family and Damien, who does a fantastic cover of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" with Christa).

By the time midnight rolls around, Payton's tuckered out and Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Tom have already left. Lestrade is planning on crashing on Mrs. Hudson's couch, Damien's already asleep on the couch in Ana's flat, Mory and John head up to John's old room, Sylvia sleeps in Ana-turned-Damien's room, Gabriel; after putting Payton to bed, follows Sherlock and Christabella upstairs and crashes on the couch.

By one-thirty everyone is fast as sleep.

* * *

Christmas morning is a casual affair. Most everyone remains asleep until early afternoon, but Sylvia, Gabriel and Christa sit around the table in Ana's flat around about nine the next morning, sampling the remaining pie for breakfast.

"Listen," Chris whispers harshly to keep from waking Damien or Payton after the pie's gone and they've all settled with a glass of milk, Chris's chocolate soy, "I don't really give a shit, and he's the asshole that broke into my apartment and stole my blade, he has to be. And threatened my son. Sebastian Moran will die by my hand-"

"Christabella Anabeth _Donatella_," Sylvia growls. "I forbid you to go after that man. Gabriel and I will take care of it."

"With all due respect, _mother_-"

Something flashes in the grandmother's eyes and Chris hangs her head in shame.

"Do not use that tone with me."

"Nema. Leave the kid be," Gabriel says softly as he put a hand on the grandmother's arm. "She's got a maternal streak as long as yours. You did the same thing when Mikey and Luci got in that fight and dragged the rest of us into it. And Christie was halfway across the world."

"I am capable of protecting myself, Nema," Chris says, lifting her head.

Sylvia sighs. "I know, sweetheart. You've heard it, the Host. It's in a state of unrest."

"I tend not to pay attention. It's safer if I don't. I can't drag Payton in to this mess, Nema."

"Um," Gabriel cuts in, "boy toy is going to arrive in five, four, three…"

Two seconds later Sherlock joins them in the apartment. He smiles at them, leaning down to share a kiss with Christa when he passes her on the way to the fresh pot of coffee. Lestrade walk in right as Sherlock takes the seat closest to his girlfriend who slides her chair so it's flush with his. Lestrade had apparently left his blazer thrown over the back of his chair the night before.

Gabriel convinces him to stay for a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie. It's a relatively peaceful silence they sit in, until Lestrade glances at the cuddling couple for the tenth time, a shit-eating grin firmly painted on his face.

Chris rolls her eyes. "Alright, George, go ahead, ask. We both know you want to."

"It's Greg," he says although they both know that. "And when did that happen? I didn't think you did relationships, Sherlock. Well, maybe John."

She snorts at that. "Shocking isn't it?" She giggles and leans her head onto her boyfriend's shoulder. "He asked, and I use that term very loosely, three days before my birthday, so if you want to get _technical_," she lowers her voice an octave and uses a sarcastic tone that has Sherlock snorting into her hair, "twenty-two days but it wasn't official until the night of my birthday."

Lestrade grins. "Congratulations."

* * *

Christabella really didn't know what she was going to give Sherlock for Christmas, everyone else was easy.

John and Mary got an expensive retreat to themselves that they were probably going to save for their honeymoon. Damien got the guitar he's been wanting. Mrs. Hudson received a new tea set. Payton finally got that giant Play-Doh playset he wanted that Chris is already regretting giving. She gave her Nema that painting of her little family and Gabriel got a cookbook full of desserts.

Having been the last one to hand out presents, Christabella watches as those she calls her family open presents one by one until Sherlock is the only one left to open his.

She blushes when everyone turns to her expectantly. "So, um," she looks at her hands, picking at the edge of the acrylic nail on her thumb. "I really didn't know what to give you. I was originally going to give you the painting I gave Nema but that really didn't fit, 'sides where were you put it? I already wrote you a song. And _really_ you're the hardest person to buy for that I know, and that's saying something because Fiona is really hard to gift. It was Moran that gave me the idea, something about monsters and hunting them, what I did before the CIA 'fore the Marines even and I came up with this…"

She pulls a manila folder from underneath the cushion she's sitting on. "It's a case. In America, actually. There's a couples' resort in Aspen, Colorado. Six deaths in the last two months. Supposedly all accidental, but if you look at it with the right eye… It's not your usual, but it's the kinda thing I used to deal with. Well, me and the guys that I used to travel with. We can't exactly go in guns a-blaze so we'd have to go undercover, and I couldn't get a reservation until Mid-February. I wish it could be sooner, they'll contact me if there's any cancellations, but it looks like we get to spend Valentine's in Aspen. I mean, you don't have to take it. I know a couple, well, basically anyone in my father's family, Uncle Jimmy in particular, but they wouldn't mind taking a look at-"

Sherlock stops her rambling with a kiss, gentle and sweet. "Thank you, Christabella."

She smiles. "So you like it?"

"I do." He kisses her again.

"You two are the only ones I know," John says then, "that get all mushy over a murder case."

Christa grins. "Also, I promised your parents we'd visit on Boxing Day."

Sherlock groans.


	16. Chapter 15: Forever Loved, Forever

**Chapter Fifteen  
"Forever Loved, Forever Changed"**

_**Quinn Manor – Savannah, GA**_

"_Where are you going?"_

_Sixteen-year-old Ana jumps and nearly falls out of her second story window. She glances back to see Payton standing in her doorway, her arms crossed. She rolls her eyes._

"_I'll be fine, Payt. You don't have to worry about me."_

"_You're going to see Jim aren't you?"_

_Ana rolls her eyes. "Does it matter? I just have to get out of the house. Leotie and Dad are suffocating me."_

"_With good reason. Ana," Payton sighs, letting her blue eyes drop to the floor. She takes a seat on the edge of her sister's bed. "I don't trust him. I know you love him and I want to see you happy, I do. I promise I do. But I don't trust Jim."_

"_I know. But I do so…"_

"_You're a terrible liar. I don't know how you're such a good actress."_

"_Trust me Payt, I know what I'm doing." She leans out her window and grasps at the branch of the tree right outside it._

"_Just don't get hurt."_

_Ana smirks. "You know me. I'm always looking for trouble. Cover for me?"_

"_Yeah, of course. But I'm telling Nemamiah exactly where you went if she asks."_

_Ana rolls her eyes again as she slips out the window. She's done this a million times, most of the time, though, Payton follows her and they go and doze in their meadow. She drops to the ground, her momentum throwing her forward, making her catch herself with her hands. She looks back up to the window and her sister's frowning face._

"_So, basically what you're saying is I have half an hour to figure out whatever it is my fiancé is keeping from me before you unleash the wrath of heaven on me?"_

"_Basically."_

"_Great. It's been a while since I've stretched my wings."_

* * *

The Boxing Day trip didn't go as badly as Sherlock thought. His parents were too busy doting on his son for them to fuss over him, not that he completely escaped it.

Anytime he went to slip out of the room, sometimes with Christa's hand in his, his mother would call him back.

Chris smiles at him around the tenth time this happened and giggles, which she's been doing a startling increasing amount of time.

"Come on, sweetheart," she calls, pulling at his hand until he's fallen on the couch and across her lap. "Spend some time with your family. It's one day out of the whole year. That's more than I spend with mine, at least my biological family. Family don't end with blood."

"Doesn't."

"Right, doesn't." She leans down, presses a kiss to his cheek, and whispers, "At least you're still on amicable terms."

He can't find himself to reply to that. Instead he closes his eyes and lets Christabella run her fingers through her hair.

* * *

_**Mercoletti Vigneti – Abington, VA**_

"_You know, I was never really sure which side of my family I got my asshole tendencies from," Christabella growls as she throws a magazine at her father's face, "but I never would have guessed they came from the 'Southern Gentleman' side. I really shouldn't be surprised. Your whole family lies and hustles pool for a living."_

"_Ana?" Jesse stares at his daughter. "What are you talking about?"_

"_See for yourself. Page seventeen. Some bloke named Zachary Pine, I wonder who the leak is."_

_Jesse picks the tabloid up and flips to the aforementioned page. "I don't understand."_

"_Really because it's pretty fucking clear. I mean, it's nice to understand why Nemamiah came in the first place. Not sure why _that_ was a secret. I mean, I sorta guessed something like that happened with Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Marc. But my own father. Cheating. The man who looked at me so disappointedly when I told him that I cheated. The one who all but disowned his own son when his infidelity came to light. How _dare_ you fucking treat us like we're the scum of the earth, when it's you that's the scumbag? Does Leotie know?"_

"_You want to watch your tone, Christabella."_

"_No, I don't think I do. It all makes sense now. Why Nema wants nothing to do with you. Why Leotie didn't want anything to do with me."_

"_She didn't want you because you're a monster," Jesse yells as he stands, palms slamming on the top of his desk. "If I had known-"_

_In a flash, Christabella is across the room. She yanks Jesse from his desk and shoves him against the glass wall that overlooks the vineyard. She grasps at his throat, her nails biting into the skin. Her eyes glow in the moonlight, hatred and anger tint them a stormy grey-blue._

"_If you had known… what? You would've killed me? Let Leotie die? Never cheated in the first place?" She chuckles darkly. "Everything happened because you decided that you needed to stick your dick in – what was her name? – Jessica Sanchez? Really, my siblings thought of her as an aunt."_

_She tightens her grip, and Jesse gasps for air._

"_I may be a monster by blood, but you're a monster by choice and that is so much worse."_

* * *

Christabella jerks awake and for a moment she doesn't remember where she is. She's far too warm at first, but then Sherlock's embrace tightens and she's fine. She lets her heart calm before she squirms out of bed.

Sherlock finds her a half hour later in the kitchen a cold cup of tea in her hands.

"Nightmare?" he asks.

She stares at him for a long moment, her icy eyes unblinking. Slowly she shakes her head.

"Yes," she breathes and drops her eyes towards her mug.

He can tell it's calculated, and a lie, though he's not sure why she'd lie about having a nightmare.

* * *

_**Abandoned Warehouse – Miami, AR**_

"_You look fantastic," Dean whisper-yells over towards his sort-of-girlfriend._

"_Thanks," she whispers back. Her blue eyes are amused despite the situation._

"_I thought we agreed pizza date _after_ we ganked these sons of bitches?"_

"_We did. For your information, before you practically deafened me, I was interviewing someone across town about local lore." She shrugs. "I never trust the internet. Well, not when it comes to mythology. I try to get it from the source."_

_There's a loud clank that keeps Dean from answering. He does some hand motion that's supposed to mean she goes left and he goes right and they'll cut the bastard off. From the angle, Ana's at, and the help of the very low grimy lighting, it doesn't look like anything except Dean's hand having a seizure._

_With a nod, she mouths a count down and when she hits one, they both move._

_For some reason, Ana's slower (perhaps having to run in both heels and a tight pencil skirt) and she hears Dean shout and then some scuffling. Anabeth gets there just in time to see Dean collapse to the ground and the dick who knocked him out lunge down towards him._

_Ana's merciless as she shoots the man twice in the chest. He collapses to the ground._

_She races towards Dean, reaching him the same time his brother does._

* * *

The rest of the winter holiday went fine. Sylvia left on the twenty-seventh, though Gabriel stayed until after the New Year.

January was uneventful, despite the Christabella's worrying. Daisha visits, though it's not exciting. She'd had a week before she has to go back to school. She tells Chris about how her mom's present for Christmas was a trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

Chris replies with, "Invite some friends, and take Rose, make it a road trip and call it a birthday present. You'll be twenty-one this year right?"

Daisha nods. "Yeah, on the twenty-third of February."

* * *

_**Somewhere near Agloe, NY**_

"_After all of this… You wanted me to find you here?"_

_Nemamiah shrugs. Her blue eyes peer at Anabeth curiously._

"_You needed to be shown that not everything is as it seems."_

"_But I already knew that," Ana shakes her head. "I already knew all that existed."_

"_You left Dean… Why?" Nema's shoes click on the rotting hardwood of the old house._

"_I – it wasn't working out."_

"_Wasn't it? He loved you, did he not?"_

_Ana frowns and looks over the older woman. "What does this have to do with anything?"_

"_If you don't figure that answer out for yourself in the coming times ask me again in…" she looks at her watch, "let's say, nine years exactly?"_

"_Nema, what…?"_

_But in a blink of an eye, Nemamiah was gone._

* * *

"Nema!" Christabella gasps as she sits up. Her movement, more so than her speaking, drags Sherlock from slumber.

"Christa? Everything okay?"

She looks over her shoulder at him and frowns. "Fine," she lies. "I'm fine. It's just a nightmare."

* * *

_**A cemetery – Baldwinsville, NY**_

"_Gods, Anabeth, it's been what? Six years?"_

"_Yeah, around that," the girl replies. "How have you been Winnie-the-Pooh?"_

"_Good, good. Really good." When the girl nods, her mess of brown curls bounce against her coat. "Got in a fight with my mother, got a degree in physics. I've been traveling a lot, mainly in the UK."_

"_I can hear that. London, yeah?"_

_Winnie nods. "Yeah. What about you Eeyore? How have you been?"_

"_I have been better. There is a lot going on at the moment. Felt like I should pay a visit to, er, Piglet? I haven't been up this far north for a while. Or at least not state side."_

"_Right, no I've seen. That whole thing with Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. How'd you manage that?"_

"_Officially, it was a love triangle. Unofficially, the CIA put me up to it."_

"_Right. So, um, if you don't mind me asking, when's the baby due?"_

* * *

It's two days after Daisha leaves that Sherlock comes home to find Christabella standing outside shivering in the cold, cigarette between her lips.

"Mrs. Hudson gave me a strange look." She shrugged, taking one last drag and dropping the butt, grinding it into the pavement. "It was either this or I shoot up. I've been having terrible cravings."

"Does this have anything to do with the nightmares you've been having?" he asks, quite condescendingly as he lets them into the townhouse.

Christa remains silent.

"I'll take that as a yes, then. Are you ever going to tell me what keeps waking you up every night?"

She sighs heavily. "They're not nightmares. They're… memories, mostly anyway. Let's not talk about them, yeah? You don't need to worry over them. They're stupid really. You and John solve that case?"

It seems to work, or at least that's the air Sherlock gives her as they reach their apartment.

"Of course we did."

"I knew you would," she says with a grin and pulls him into a kiss that tastes of coffee, cinnamon, and cigarettes.


	17. Chapter 16: You Looked at Me so Cold

**Chapter Sixteen  
"You Looked at me so Cold"**

It was in June the previous year that Payton started to show a certain interest. At the time, Christabella was dealing with the final few pieces – grades and such – for school, there was a staff party planned – well "staff" was vague, it was more of a party for the Fine Arts program, the teachers really.

This is not being explained very well.

Anyway, being the creative a lot they were it was themed of course, this year being "Spanish soirée". Christa snorted at that.

As the newest member of the group, it was Christa's duty to host the party, despite not being part of the planning committee.

That being said, Christa found yourself taking Payton through Macy's that she's shopped for an appropriate dress/outfit for the party. She does find it, it's a (insert something here). Then, of course spoiled as he is, Peyton bags for a new outfit himself.

The fact the Payton drives her right to where he wants to be should surprise her as much as it does. Perhaps it's not the fact that he does lead her, but more the fact that her two-year-old son directed her to the little girl's section and immediately pointed out a lacy green day dress like he been eyeing the thing for months.

Christabella had never been so blindsided in her life, nor had she ever been so conflicted with what to say. After a long moment, and what she goes over every possible way to say "But you're a boy," "That's not for you," and/or "Wouldn't you prefer pants?" without hurting Payton's feelings, she settles on "Not today," which sounds more like "Not ever," to her, ears but Peyton seems to be fine with the answer if a bit downtrodden. Instead, he picks up something that, when worn, reminds Christabella far too much of Sherlock.

This allegory, of course, is to lead into the concerning fact that Payton more and more is showing far too feminine tendencies.

"He's three," she reminds herself. "He doesn't know."

But despite this, Payton's far too smart for that to actually stick. Perhaps he won't be as smart as Sherlock or Mycroft, but he certainly isn't a goldfish. Actually, like his mother, he seems to have an eidetic memory. Of course, none of this is either here nor there, really, because she's standing awestruck as her son stares up at her, violet dress in his hands, (these damn eyes) his face pleading.

Her mind screams "No. This is wrong!"

Because wearing a dress is so different, so very different from asking for the Rapunzel doll for his birthday, or wanting the _Little_ _Mermaid_ themed tea set.

And so she stares openmouthed at her son, unable to even speak the words "Not today."

It's Mary's appearance that unfreezes the mother, who just looks pleadingly at her friend. Mary's frown is more of a grimace, but she still speaks softly.

"Okay," the blonde says. "Well," this is certainly something let's, here," Mary crouches slightly to take the dress from him. "Let's find your size, and your mother can wait by the dressings are dressing rooms, yeah?"

Christa only nods by the time Mary figures out Payton's size, they've found two other dresses, one blue and the other a slightly lighter purple than the first. Damien is trailing after them, carrying all three dresses.

The nanny ushers his charge into the dressing room Mary taking a seat beside Christa.

"So, what's bothering you?"

Christa looks over, her eyes filled with a fear Mary'd never seen before.

"He wants to wear dresses Mary, how is that not bothering you?"

Mary shrugs. "Why are you making it a big deal?"

"A _dress_, Mary. Boys don't do that. Boys wear holes in the knees of their jeans and play with Tonka trucks. They don't wear dresses and play with tea sets and-and they just _don't_. Okay?"

"You grew up in a very bigoted house, didn't you?"

Christa glares at Mary. "I did, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Mary rolls her eyes. "You Americans."

"Like you have anything to say in that department, _Mary_."

"I'm just saying, Ana, Payton wanting to wear dresses and wanting to play with tea sets and things it's not a big deal. A lot of boys do. It's just a phase, worst case scenario it's a phase that last the rest of his life. Right now, though he needs his mother to tell him that it's not a big deal, that he's still… _normal_."

"But it's no-"

"Yes it is. If it's fine for women to wear trousers and do the same things men can do, then can't it be fine for boys to wear dresses and play with dolls?"

Christa frowns. "I mean, yeah, just-"

"Not your son?"

She hangs her head. The dressing room area is quiet save for the hushed whispers from Payton and Damien.

After a long moment Mary reaches over and rubs the other woman's back.

"You don't have to like it to be accepting of it. Just remember that."

Ana glances over at her. "Thanks, you know, for everything."

Damien clears his throat then. "Well, we tried on all three dresses, but this one," at that Payton walks out of the stall sheepishly, "was our favorite."

Payton has a shy smile as he messes with the tulle of the blue ball gown.

Christa feels like she's about to cry, and Payton looks like it as he takes in his mother. She remains silent, feeling both Mary and Damien's pleading look as she takes the vision of her son in.

"Okay," she says at long last. "But can mommy see the other dresses on you too? And then we can go pick out shoes. Yeah?"

The grin Christabella got in return was definitely worth it.

* * *

"That was sweet of you, what you did back there for Payton," Damien says as they peruse some shoe store. Mary had left earlier, having to go back to work, and Payton raced ahead excited to find matching shoes for his new dress.

Christa shrugged. "I mean, what else could I do?"

"Well, you could've been like my father."

"What?"

Damien tucks his shoulders. "My older brother is genderfluid."

"Genderfluid?"

Damien nods. "Yeah, it means he sorta switches between genders depending on how he feels that day. Although he was born male and does prefer masculine pronouns. It's actually a lot more common than you think. And having met your family, outside of their tolerance for Alfie, I could tell right off they're a lot like my father. Miguel came out to me and Carla, our older sister, first. Carla would take him out shopping and hide his more feminine clothes in her room. On the days he felt more like a girl, she would take him the outfit he wanted to wear and he would change in the bathroom or the locker room before class.

"Anyway, when my dad found out he kicked Miguel out. He stayed with his then girlfriend's family, they've since married. And once Carla was old enough to, she moved out and took me with her. But that's beside the point. My dad to this day refuses to acknowledge he has another son. And well, if anyone asks, the three of us immediately say our parents are dead, despite the fact that our father still tries to talk to Carla and I.

"The point is, Chris," Damien says as he steers her to where her son was jumping up and down while pointing to little strappy sandals, "what you did back there, despite you not liking the idea of your son being any more different than he already is, was ground-breaking. He might not ever say so, but the simple fact that you let him wear a dress is basis for the fantastic relationship you and he will have. Of course others are going to either think you forced him to dress that or that you let him get away with too much, but giving into phases, simple ones like this, is good. Because if it is a phase he'll grow out of it much quicker than if you didn't let him."

She smiles gently in thanks.

* * *

It's a brisk February afternoon when Christabella Moriarty, Anabeth to her closest friends, settles onto the swings in the backyard of her new home, in her hands is a copy of some Agatha Christie novel. The pair of black earbuds she's using are connected to a blue iPhone resting in the breast pocket of the plaid flannel shirt that covers an old Goo Goo Dolls concert tee.

She hardly registers the sounds of Ron Pope, Brendon Urie, Robert Plant and Christina Aguilera or the words that seem to float across the pages. Although, she continues to read, to listen as her mind wanders off.

She doesn't hear her name being called, or see the nanny in the window as he tells her son to wave down at her.

Technically Ms. Moriarty isn't supposed to be home, hence the nanny still being there. But after spending her entire planning period staring blankly at the darkening sky, the principal had sent her home with a demand to take her happy pills.

But Chris knew better this time around. This bout of depression was long since coming and no amount of happy pills were going to fix that. It was far more than just waiting for the firefly to blink, for a brief shot of happiness.

Part of her wanted to blame the sudden realization of the fact that she's surrounded by men, most of which are dealing with their own crippling problems, all of which Ana had already dealt with herself.

She wonders at what point had Hannah, her self-proclaimed "Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World," been replaced with her neighbor's daughter. Or at what point had her love for her late husband been replaced with love for his archenemy. Or when had her sister, whose death had put her in the clutches of depression in the first place been replaced not by her sister's namesake, but by her namesake's nanny, who she'd recently developed an unhealthy obsession for. Was it a conscious decision of hers to transfer her addictions from nicotine and heroin to Mary, John and Dean? Worse than that; the memory of Dean?

When did losing herself become grasping blindly at the men around her?

Lightning flashes above her head and the sound of thunder is barely audible above the solemn sounds of Led Zeppelin. It's the sudden opening of the sky that shocks her out of her head. She yanks her headphones out of her ears and stupidly glances at the sky.

There's the hearty sound of laughter somewhere above her and she looks up to see Damien laughing while Payton leans out of the window slightly to wave at his mother. Despite the solemnity that tortures her at the moment she turns her lips up into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.


	18. Chapter 17: The Beat's Gone and Lost in

**Chapter Seventeen  
"The Beats Gone and Lost in the Show"**

The Moonlight Crest hotel and mountain resort is an adults (further a couples) only resort open 365 days a year. Apparently they're "closed" on the twenty-nineth of February every leap year as a running joke.

While their ski season only ranges from late November to early April, the resort itself is open to any couple who wishes to join the Moonlight family.

William Moffat and Elizabeth Van Zant ("Really?" "Well, we can't exactly go waltzing in there with our actual names. Or I can't at least. This is an alias I've had for years. It's one that I'm familiar with. Oh, look at that, she's an FBI agent.") check in at noon on Sunday, February ninth. They're given a fifty question questionnaire that the other isn't allowed to see the answers to and shown to their room.

Once the door is shut firmly behind them Christabella pulls her brunette wig (actually its more of a light brown/ dirty blonde) off immediately.

"Have I ever told you just how attractive you are in those jeans?" she wonders as she wraps her arms around his waist.

He smiles down at her. "Considering I've never worn them, no."

She giggles, closing her eyes (which are a deep green with contacts).

They spent their first evening lounging in their suite going over what they knew of the case and their cover story.

* * *

Two days in and they still haven't found anything.

Okay that's not entirely true, outside of the original three couples who'd originally caught Christa's eye there were five others in the last year.

Three of them had died in ski/snowboard accidents. One woman had died of anaphylactic shock, her husband, in his grief, had killed himself hours later. The final couple had gone for a drunken late night swim, slipped on the tile and cracked their skull on the edge and drowned.

But other than that there was nothing new.

* * *

Tuesday night is when things get interesting. They really haven't done much outside of their suite aside from dinner at one of the restaurants and an hour on the slopes.

The resort had a not necessarily made it mandatory, but it was heavily implied that all couples should attend dinner that night at the restaurant.

It's during the second course that the gentle piano music is cut short and a short, blond man taps on a microphone.

"Really?" Christa winces.

"Okay, hello everyone! I'm your host, most people just call me The Host. Except my wife Michelle." He motions over towards the petite redhead just off stage. The girl, Michelle, waves. "So, for the next three nights, we're going to play a game similar to _The Newlywed Game_."

He chuckles nervously. Michelle rolls her eyes and joins her husband on stage.

"We're going to pull three couples of various statuses onstage. The women are going to step backstage for a moment to write down their answers on these little white posters. They have little red and pink hearts on the edges, it's all really cliché." Michelle's giggle is a lot less nervous than her husband. "Anyway, while they're doing that, the men are going to be asked some generic questions, simple things how they met, first date, and things like that. Once the women are done we're get to the actual game. Whoever wins each night gets to join us for a final game on Friday, Valentine's Day. And whoever wins that game gets our honeymoon special."

The Host nods. "So our first couples are Sarah and Steve, John and Winnie, and William and Elizabeth, guys if you'll join me on stage and Ladies, follow Michelle."

Once everyone is in their designated areas, The Host clears his throat and looks towards the three men.

"Alright, Steve you're up first. Now you and Sarah are engaged, right?"

Steve, the perfect vision of a corn fed All-American, nods and brings his microphone to his lips. "Yes, sir."

"How did you meet?"

That's generally how the interviews go. Well, how Steve and John's interviews go. "William" doesn't really get a chance to go through his before the women return and take seats on the stools next to their partners.

"Well, Elizabeth you're just in time," The Host says as she settles into her seat.

Christa smiles at him. "I suppose that's a good thing, considerin'."

Sherlock turns towards her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothin'." Her smirk is mischievous and despite not looking like him at all, she reminds him of Gabriel.

"So how'd you two meet?" The Host asks.

"She moved into the flat beneath mine," Sherlock answers.

"Let me guess, you were the thoughtful neighbor that helped her move that last box in?"

Christa shakes her head with a smile. "No, he wasn't home when I moved in. We didn't really meet until what, a week after I moved in? I was going to work, and this jackass decided that it was a good idea to get drugged at a bar. It _was_ for a case, mind you. Although, he did call me a whore not even thirty seconds after scarin' me half to death."

"I believe my exact words were 'high class prostitute.'"

She scrunches her nose. "I was a _burlesque dancer_."

"I was drugged," he complained. "We were two very different people back then."

* * *

After that things sped up.

Sarah and Steve went first. They got a score of 40 out of 100.

John and Winnie scored a 90, John only tripping up on her favorite song.

And then it was their turn.

"Sweetheart, darling, love of my life," Christa says with a mock sweetness as she presses a kiss to her boyfriend's cheek. "I love you, and I know you can do this."

The Host grins. "Ready?"

Sherlock nods.

"Question one: What is Elizabeth's favorite movie?"

"_Holmes! Put me down! I can walk!"_

"_Not without help," he tells as he shifts her weight so she leaning into him and she has to wrap her arm around his neck to remain comfortable. "John would be good and fine, but he won't touch you. I am too tall to effectively have your arm on my shoulder. Did you really expect to hop the whole four blocks back?"_

"_I don't like being babied."_

"_Just so."_

"_Look, honey, sweetheart, darling, love of my life," Christa says with a mock sweetness that the detective raises a brow at, "I know we were lookin' at weddin' dresses and all yesterday, but I'm fairly sure this is part of the honeymoon."_

"_Shoes," John says from slightly behind them. "Silver strappy shoes, a note and a blue gift bag. That's what's in the box."_

"_From Tiffany's no doubt," Christabella calls back. "Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ is my favorite movie."_

He doesn't hesitate when he says, "_Breakfast at Tiffany's_."

Christa's smiling proudly when she holds up the card, the words BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S in thick black marker.

"Question two: Favorite song?"

"_I love this song," Christa says between verses. It's the third time she's said it since she started listening to music. Sherlock only raises a brow._

"Wherever she goes  
All that I know about us  
Is beautiful things never last  
That's why fireflies flash._"_

_The song bleeds into another, one that Sherlock isn't as familiar with. Christa's voice occasionally joins in with the singer and when she's not writing, her fingers form the cords._

"Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time  
His is the force that lies within  
Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find_"_

_She flicks her eyes up at him._

"_I think it's between this and "Fireflies." My favorite song I mean."_

_Sherlock's just about done with the song when it finally ends and shifts into another that has a tiny grin forming on her lips. She doesn't say anything about the song, but her eyes light up and she sings every lyric, without meaning to judging by how she's singing them beneath her breath._

_She air guitars half the song._

"Don't let her slip away  
Sentimental fool  
Don't let your heart get in the way  
Yeah, yeah, yeah_"_

_She's still singing the chorus three songs later._

"She'll tell you it's "Fireflies" by Ron Pope or "All Of My Love" by Led Zeppelin, but if she's being honest it's "Hold On Loosely" by 38 Special."

The card Chris holds up, slack jawed, has FIREF and ALL OF MY crossed out before in much smaller writing it has HOLD ON LOOSELY – 38 SPECIAL.

"How the hell did you know that?" she asks.

"I pay attention. It was simple."

The Host continues. "Question three: Elizabeth's Guilty Pleasure."

"I don't know about you  
But I'm feelin' twenty-two  
Everything will be all right  
If we just keep dancin' like we're _– Sherlock!"_

_She squeaks and dives for her laptop that's across the room, pausing the song immediately._

"_Don't stop on my account," he says with a small smirk._

"_W-what – what are you doing here?" A blush heats her face red._

"_Our date?" he says pointedly. "Unless you have something better to do?"_

_She shakes her head. "I was getting ready to start binging _Scrubs_ on Netflix even though I've seen it about eight times. I can't believe I forgot about our date. I'm supposed to be the one that remembers things."_

"Scrubs_?"_

_She shrugs. "It's a guilty pleasure."_

Sherlock chuckles. "_Scrubs_ and Taylor Swift. Though I doubt she admitted the latter."

Christa shakes her head. "I didn't," she says, revealing the card that says BINGING SCRUBS ON NETFLIX. "But it's true. Thanks for that."

"You're welcome."

"Question four: What was the last thing you fought about?"

"_You need to calm down."_

_Christabella scoffs. "I need to calm down? There's a psychopath looking to kill my son and I need to calm down?"_

"_Moran's not going to get a chance to hurt him."_

"_You don't know that! Not for sure."_

"_No, but I know you, and I know you wouldn't let anything happen to him. And neither would I, or anyone for that matter."_

"_You don't understand, Sherlock. I can't – I'm cancelling our reservations. I'll make it up to you. I'll find another case."_

"_No, Christa, we're going. Even if we don't solve the case. You need some time away. You need to relax. Payton will be fine until we get back."_

"_Promise?"_

_Sherlock swallows, but doesn't answer._

"Payton," Sherlock replies.

Christabella nods, holding up a poster that says OUR SON.

"Four for four," the host says. "Question five: What's her favorite nickname and who gave it to her?"

"_Perhaps, I'll take Payton to see you soon. At least he has one pair of respectable grandparents." She gives them a bright smile._

"_You're always welcome, Christa," Mr. Holmes tells her with an equally bright smile._

_She blushes at the nickname, and heads for her coat on the back of the door._

"Oh, Christa. Short for Christine, her middle name. My father gave it to her."

With a blush that she hides in his neck, she holds up the card: HIS FATHER CALLS ME CHRISTA.

"Aw, that's precious. Next question; Pet Peeve."

"_Oh come on, Harls."_

"_No, Hannah. I will not," Anabeth growls._

"_Will you listen to yourself?" Ms. Wayne asks. "You're turning Vulcan again. At least Spock uses contractions."_

"_I am not a Halfling, of anything, let alone something extraterrestrial."_

"_Keep telling yourself that, kid."_

_Anabeth clenches her jaw. "And let me guess, _you_ are Kirk in this, then? Need I remind you, which one of us used to spend all her free time in the library? With all due respect; Captain," she spits. "Get out."_

"When people compare her to a Vulcan."

Her card reads WHEN I'M COMPARED TO SPOCK. Close enough.

"Question seven: Where did you go on your first date?"

"Dancing, she had a competition, and then we had fish and chips."

"Favorite book?"

_Two brown-paper-wrapped packages sat on the table the next morning. On each a similar-looking note was gracefully inked onto the paper._

Sherlock,  
There is, in fact, a singular day that which friends and family set aside to celebrate your day of birth. And for every birthday there are exactly 364 (365 on leap years, unless you were born on February 29th then there's always 365) unbirthdays. Who says we can't celebrate those too? Have a very happy unbirthday!  
Love, Christabella

_She'd given him a copy of Paper Towns by John Green. He'd seen Anabeth reading the same novel a few days before she left for America. There was symbolism there._

"_Paper Towns_ by John Green."

"Hidden talent?"

Sherlock looks over towards Christa, a frown etching lines into his face.

"Maybe that she can pick up any instrument and know how to properly play it within an hour?"

Christabella throws her head back in a half-snort-half-giggle sort of laugh.

"I don't even. Where did you learn that?"

"Gabriel told John and Mary over breakfast Christmas Eve. Mary pointed it out that night when you were playing piano Christmas Eve."

"Huh. Interesting."

"Okay, so far, William, you've gotten every question right. One last one."

"I think it's unfair that it's such an easy question," Christa says shoving at Sherlock's shoulder. "Although, if you get this wrong, I'll take away morgue privileges for a month."

"Here's to hoping that's a euphemism for something. Anyway. Final question: Where was your first kiss?"

_It happened after Anabeth had rambled on about how poisoning was more common with female killers than male and it was most often a woman when poison was used, it was the most passive way to kill someone, but most men often forgot that because of some stupid power complex-_

_He wasn't above physically shutting her up, not that he'd ever hit her, but he had on occasion or two placed his hand over her mouth gently when his usual shouting of her name didn't work. Maybe it was their close proximity, or maybe it was because one of them was drunk, or maybe it was because of the "obvious sexual tension" (John's words) between them, or maybe it was just his elation at his case-solving epiphany, but none of his normal shutting-up methods came to mind as he shouted "Thank-you, Anabeth."_

_He did physically silence her, just with a kiss. Nothing too extreme. It was naught but a simple pressing of lips to lips and it was over as soon as it was started. There was a short brief moment in which blue-green met icy blue while time caught up with them before lips met once again._

_This interlocking of lips lasted only long enough for Sherlock to come completely to himself and shove Anabeth away from him._

"_You're drunk," he says._

_She nods, her eyes closed against the tears that were already welling. "I know," she says._

"You – no, _my_ apartment. I did it to stop your talking."

She nods, holding up her card. "I was drunk."

"Congratulations, William and Elizabeth. It seems William at least know his better half."

The three couples leave the stage, Sherlock and Christa the last ones to get off.

There's a little Chinese man off to the side that comes up to them holding out two red friendship bracelets.

"For the winners," he says. "You make cute couple."

Christa smiles as she takes her bracelet, saying thanks in Mandarin, which only makes the man smile brighter.


	19. Chapter 18: And All the Bad Boys are

**Chapter Eighteen  
"And All the Bad Boys are Standing in the Shadows"**

It's the following day at lunch that they're approached by two men. Both were over six feet, dwarfing Christa's five-foot-four self.

"William Moffat and Elizabeth Van Zant?" the taller one asks.

"Yes?" Sherlock answers. Christabella takes a sharp breath and leans into him.

The man smiles and flashes a badge, large blue letters declaring him FBI. "I'm Agent Ulrich. This is my partner Agent Hetfield."

"I'm guessing you get a lot of Metallica jokes," Christa says, going in for teasing and coming out with a tightened throat.

Sherlock looks over at her. She's hiding a wince in her wine.

There's a wordless question in his eyes to which she replies with a wordless scream.

"You know your music," the shorter, Agent Hetfield, says.

She gives a smile as she avoids meeting the agent's eyes. "You could say that."

Sherlock takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently. "How can we help you gentlemen?"

"We just wanted to ask a few questions. Last night, one of the couples you played against, Sarah Rogers and Steve Haynes, were killed."

Christa snaps up. "What?"

"They were found in their suite this morning. Where were you last night?"

"I'm afraid we really wouldn't be of much help," Chris tells them. "We went right back to our room after dessert." She hides her blush in Sherlock's shoulder. "But if there's someone killing couples maybe we should leave. I mean, Payton's probably missing me and not sleeping. I haven't been there to sing him to sleep, oh my god! I – oh, God." Her face scrunches up. "I don't think that wine is sitting in my stomach right."

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asks only to have her shake her head as she gags.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she says, before running off.

"She gonna be alright?" Agent Ulrich asks.

"I'm not sure. If you'll excuse me," Sherlock says before he stalks after Christa.

* * *

"What was that about?" Sherlock asks when she finally steps out of the bathroom.

"I got sick," she replies like it's obvious. "I think it might have been the seafood."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. Come on, I want to go lay down. Come cuddle me, buttercup."

Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately but follows her to their room.

* * *

"He reminded me of Dean, is all. That's why I acted the way I did. But I was actually sick. Anyway," Christa reaches for the stack of files on the bedside table, "so Steve and Sarah. That's a grand total of – what? – nine couples? Eighteen people? Besides this resort what did they have in common?"

"They're different ages. Some were married, some engaged, some just dating."

Christa sighs. "None of them died the same way, most of them look like accidents. Whatever this is, they're good."

Sherlock reaches over and flips open another file.

"What made you think there was a case here?"

"The eye of a hunter," she says distractedly as she eyes the red braided bracelet on Sherlock's wrist. The sight makes her smile, she hadn't thought he would've done something so sentimental. Yet, something tugs at the back of her mind. "Maybe I was wrong. If there's a case here, it's a long stretch. There was just something that…"

She flicks her eyes from the folder to Sherlock's wrist and then she's flipping through case photos.

"Can you get my laptop please?" she asks as she sits up, half her files slipping off the bed as she does.

Sherlock stands and crosses the room to get her laptop from her suitcase. She give him a smile in thanks as she takes it. Impatient as it loads, she taps the beat of some Journey song he can't think the name of.

"What are you doing?" he asks as she starts to type furiously.

"Hacking… the… local… police station…" She's got that cute look of concentration she gets when she's painting. Near enough to twenty minutes later ("God, I'm getting slow.") she throws her hands up! "Aha!"

She turns the computer for Sherlock to look at it.

"That is Sarah Rogers' ankle."

"Yes, thank you Captain Obvious. Notice anything else."

"She's wearing an anklet. A lot of women do."

Christa nods. She strikes a few keys on the keyboard and the screen fills with pictures of ankles with anklets. Red ones. Like their bracelets.

"A lot of men do too, apparently," she says. "There's a story in Chinese folklore about the red string of fate."

Sherlock nods. "It's tied at the ankle or sometimes the pinky of two soul mates."

"You delete the solar system, but you remember a Chinese myth?"

He shrugs.

"Anyway. The string is tied by a man called _Yuè Xià Lǎo Rén_, literally "old man under the moon." And the legend goes like this; during the Tang Dynasty, there was a young man named, um, Wei Gu. Once he was passing this city where he saw an old man leaning on his pack reading a book in the moonlight. Wei Gu walked up and asked what he was doing. The old man answered, "I am reading a book of marriage listings for who is going to marry whom. In my pack are red cords for tying the feet of husband and wife."

"When Wei Gu and the old man came together to a marketplace, they saw a blind old woman carrying a three-year-old little girl in her arms. The old man said to Wei Gu, "This little girl will be your wife in the future." Wei Gu thought this was too strange to believe and he ordered his servant to stab the girl. Some versions say that Wei Gu picked up a stone and threw it at her and scars her eyebrow and that's how he knows it her in the future.

"Fourteen years later, Wang Tai, the governor of Xiangzhou, gave Wei Gu his daughter in marriage. He was having difficulty finding a suitable match of higher standing for his daughter even though she was a beautiful young woman because she had difficulty walking and had a large scar on the small of her back. When Wei Gu asked what had happened, he was told that she had been stabbed by a man in the marketplace fourteen years before.

"After ten years and three children later, Wei Gu sought the old man for suitable matches for his two younger sons and daughter. The old man refused to find suitors for his children. During the later years, Wei Gu sought to find a possible match for his children, but by coincidence, no marriage was put to order."

"Now what does this have to do with the case?"

Christa rolls her eyes. "He's the Chinese god of love and marriage, what doesn't he have to with the case? There's all sorts of people who would at least pray such a god for his blessing. Plus the number of crazies that would actually try to summon him." She flicks a few more keys and pulls up the first of the couples.

"Lydia and Jeremy Kong. Their relationship already rocky when they decided to go on a retreat." She shrugs. "It would makes sense that one of them would pray to _Yuè Lǎo_. Maybe someone overheard and like an overly religious freak – Don't say anything. Yes I am the pot in this situation. – decided to take it into his own hands." She taps his leg with her foot. "Why don't you go ask around? Maybe, like Sarah and Steve, they lost The Newlywed Game? I'm just going to lay here. Maybe we can call for room service tonight?"

"Feel better," he says kissing her forehead. "I love you."

"And I you."

Once Sherlock's gone and down in the main part of the hotel (Christa hacked the cameras and also the registry, the agents were staying in the hotel), she scribbles a note on the back of one of the photos that fell on the floor and ducks out of the room.

She pickpockets the maid for his master keycard and heads towards the sixth floor where Agent Hetfield was roomed.

Three knocks and then "Room service." There's no answer so she slips in the room sets the note and the keycard on the dresser and slips out.

* * *

_**Savannah, Georgia. Nine Years Ago.**_

_Anabeth groans as she peels back her over shirt, the red and green flannel falling back on the hood of her car. The humidity was beyond uncomfortable, a sweaty, sticky reminder why she never visited her paternal grandparents in the summer. The only good part of this "family trip" was that she could, in theory just up and leave and no one could say a thing because, one) she was an adult, had been for seven years and two) this was officially her car as of last Friday._

_Just a handful of yards away, her father's family is all crowed on the four or five picnic blankets passing potato salad and grilled chicken and hamburgers and hot dogs and fruit salad around loading their plates while simultaneously making sure they'd have enough room after the luncheon for Grandma Maggie's pies._

_Her older brother catches her eye and hold up a plate, a silent plea for her to come join the family in feasting. She shakes her head and holds up a hand, declining. _

_Her gaze turns before his does, the glossy paint of another classic car distracting it._

_"Nice," she says aloud._

_"Great body," a voice says beside her. She rolls her eyes as she sneaks a glance at Alfie. "Nice tail end there, I wonder if the front just as sexy?"_

_"Aren't you taken?" Anabeth questions._

_Alfie scoffs. "I was talking about the car. Although, I wouldn't mind being the ham in that sandwich."_

_"Again," Anabeth murmurs. "Not sure Antony would like his boyfriend talking like that about other men."_

_"Just because I have a car doesn't mean I can't look at newer models."_

_Anabeth snorts. "First of all, they're brother's, straight ones at that, although dark and broody does have some repressed femininity there. Secondly, all I have to do it call Antony's name and you're busted."_

_"Oh, you ain't much fun since I quit drinking."_

_"Alright, Mr. Keith," Anabeth says as she slips off the hood of her car, taking her flannel with her. "You know where you can shove it."_

_She tosses her shirt into the open window of her car, before slipping her Iron Man tee off and tossing it in the widow too, revealing the black string bikini top._

_"You have no public decency do you?" Alfie wonders as she goes around to the trunk._

_"Well, let's see, I'm 25, I got the bod of a fuckin' supermodel, I've got a badass car, and it's nearly a hundred outside. Yeah, no I think it be a waste for me to have any decency."_

_"Whatever floats your boat, Ana. And, uh, Batman won over tall, dark and handsome, so he's heading this way." He rolls his eyes as he returns to the family, completely forgetting what he was supposed to talk to her about._

_Anabeth returned to her car, popping the trunk open. She rifles around looking for a cooler top than the black tee she was wearing moments prior. Settling with a black AC/DC crop top and finding an old pair of cutoffs, she smiles, already feeling the difference in temperatures._

_"Nice car," a voice behind her says. It was deep, gruff almost and sent a shiver down her spine. "'68 Camaro, right?"_

_"'69," Anabeth murmurs, ducking out of the trunk. "But close. Although, I have a feeling you already knew that." She throws the crop top on. Sitting on the lip of the trunk she looks up at the man in a suit, squinting her eyes against the sunlight. "How can I help you?" she wonders as she unlaces her boots and places them in the trunk behind her._

_He pulls a leather wallet from his inside blazer pocket. Flicking it open, he reveals an FBI badge that he only shows for a second too short._

_"Okay," Anabeth says, biting her lip. "What can I do for you, Agent Walsh?"_

_"We're investigating a few local murders," the man begins. _

_Thankfully in that moment, a cloud decided to pass over the sun, dimming the light just enough to make out the green in the agents eyes._

_"Out by Jenkins High School, right?" Anabeth wonders as she slips her socks off. There was no sexy way of removing socks._

_"Those would be the ones." Agent Walsh adopted a little smirk to his lips._

_"Yeah, I heard about them. It's a shame." She stands up and faces the trunk again, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she shimmies her jeans off in effort to keep her feet from burning on the black top. "I can't say I'd be of much help. I've only been in town for three days."_

_She can practically feel his eyes leering at her ass. She'd be lying if she said she minded. She pulls on a pair of stone-washed cut-offs and slips her feet into black flip-flops._

_"I'll try to answer any questions to the best of my ability," Ana says as she turns back around, a half-assed smirk on her lips. "Although, I should warn you, that group of people over there, the ones your brother's speaking to? Most of them are CIA, about a third of them are FBI and the rest are Marines," she says, jerking her thumb towards the dog tags hanging off her rear view. _

"_So that little fake badge you're wielding there, isn't going to work on us. They'll humor you, if only because that" she peers over the roof of her car and points toward her grandmother, sitting in a lawn chair with a plate of apple pie on her lap, "is Maggie Carter. Aunt El is around here too. Where – oh there she is. Unfortunately, Uncle Will is no longer with us but you should get the picture, yeah?"_

"_Carter? So your hunters?" the man asks._

_She flicks her eyes over her family once more, sharing a knowing smirk with Alfie. "You could say that…"_


	20. Chapter 19: Tonight Don't Leave Me Alone

**Chapter Nineteen  
"Tonight Don't Leave Me Alone"**

Friday comes along far too soon and yet not quick enough. Between coming no closer to actually solving the case and Christa's strange behavior (if she wasn't pointedly avoiding the Feds, then she was ducking away from Sherlock every chance she saw, both actions worrying him more so than a supposed serial killer). The detective was beginning to think that Christabella was trying to keep him from solving the case.

He finds her in the pool the most recent time she runs off. He watches as she does a couple of laps. They're slow and leisurely and half the time she looks like she's seizing and he thinks it's a good thing that she doesn't swim a lot because she'd probably hurt herself, let alone others.

"Is this where you keep running off to?" he calls out to her when she's stopped for breath at the far end of the pool.

"Not always. But sometimes, yeah. I figure it's better than drowning my sorrows in red wine and heroin."

His footsteps echo off the tile and fogged glass overlooking the forest. The sloshing of the water is much softer in comparison.

Sherlock crouches down. "Tell me what's going on, Christabella."

"No," she deadpans before pushing herself down to the bottom of the pool.

* * *

Dinner between them is awkward and silent. Chris doesn't eat, she's been getting sick, probably has some stomach bug. Sherlock watches her enough that it's beginning to become creepy, but she doesn't say anything.

Those two Feds, Agents Hetfield and Ulrich, had spoken to them around lunch, saying they'd "taken care of the issue" and that they could sleep soundly. At Christa's insistence, Sherlock doesn't push, but she does whisper in his ear that she'll get the official report for him.

Across the dining hall, the two agents converse over complementary meal. Between shooting confused looks to Sherlock and glowering at her food like it's done her a great disservice, she's glaring across at them.

"I don't know which is worse, telling someone you know longer love them or trying to convince yourself." She twists her lips into a smile but it's bittersweet. "I think this couples' thing has me... I don't know. I just keep thinking about all these relationships I've had, they're not even all romantic, or bad. That's what's been bothering me, really. At some point, every single one has been ruined. I ruin them. I mean, Jim left me because of something _I_ said. _I _left Dean," she says, waving over towards the agents.

"Nema wasn't too happy over that. It's my fault Pigle – Keith is dead and Winnie of course is such a sweetheart and will never blamed me. Of course, any issue with my family is automatically defaulted as my fault. Completely, just – I-I-I don't want to ruin this, you and I."

She looks up, her eyes meeting his and pauses.

"You won't," he tells her. Her curls bounce as she shakes her head.

"But what if I do? What's if I screw up and-and you-you want – you won't want me. And don't say that's not going to happen. Because it will. It always does. I always screw up something. _Always_."

The strangest thing he realizes from all of this is how perfectly calm she is.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. This week, I've sort of ruined it, haven't I? Between my moodiness and getting sick, this is been a terrible holiday. Terrible case, really. Did you even solve it?"

Sherlock nods. "After losing, Lydia prayed to Yue Lao Ren. The man that gave us our bracelets, when I asked after him, everyone called him "The Man under the Moon.""

Christa grins. "So it was him?"

He snorts. "I suspect he had some help, someone to actually do the work. I suppose it was the host."

"So if the host has been arrested does that mean there's no final round?"

"I should hope not."

"Good. I probably would've let you down."

He takes her hand in his. "You would've been fine, you know more about me than you think."

Christabella snorts. "_Right_. The only thing I know is you make _shoddy_ tea- is that…" She tilts her head and listens. "I can do with one, two's pushing it, but I draw the line at _three_. Even if it is a cover."

Sherlock tilts his head in confusion.

"Sorry, I have a very strong distaste for Celine Dion. If you'll excuse me…" She stands and goes towards the stage. The microphone isn't working, so she whistles to get everyone's attention.

"Yeah, hi. Elizabeth, um, Van Zant and yes, I do get Skynyrd jokes all the time," she says loudly once most everyone looks over at her. The joy of being a theater geek. "Can I get a mic?"

After a moment there's a loud noise from the speakers and microphone in her hand is on.

"Alright, as I said, Elizabeth Van Zant. That's William, my boyfriend and the father of my child who will be turning three next month. Anyway, I doubt any of you really noticed, but whoever is running the music tonight, just played three Celine Dion songs in a row. Granted one was a cover of that god awful song from _Titanic_. Sorry sound guy, but, um I think I'm going to take over."

She steps over to the baby grand piano that had been pushed to the side of the stage in order to play the game earlier this week. She sets the microphone up and plays a few chords before grinning at the audience.

"If at any point in time anyone wants to come join me up here, feel free. Seriously. Also, I apologize for my own song choice, but considering I only have this piano… This first song is "Kiss Me Slowly" by Parachute."

She goes back and plays those first few chords.

"…_Hold my breath as you're moving in,  
Taste your lips and feel your skin.  
When the time comes, baby don't run, just kiss me slowly_…"

It's during the second song that someone joins her on stage, guitar in hand and plops down on a leftover stool. The man is probably two-thirds of a decade younger than Christabella, with that ridiculously popular coifed undercut that only looks good at a certain length.

Once Chris finishes her song, the two strike up conversation and before long they're playing something mutually agreed upon. That seems to be the catalyst to the whole shebang and soon there's a whole group of people switching instruments and leads and genres.

Christa slips off stage after about an hour and a half and pulls Sherlock up to their suite for one last night of rest before they returned to the UK the next day.

* * *

Christabella sleeps right up until they have to leave for the airport and still she sleeps the whole plane ride back. It isn't until they touch down at Heathrow around three o'clock the next afternoon does she really wake up.

"I think, I'm getting sick," she mumbles groggily.

"Payton did just get over the flu right before we left. It wouldn't surprise me if you caught it."

Chris only groans and throws her head back on the seat of the taxi.


	21. Chapter 20: The Lies I Weave are Oh-so

**Chapter Twenty  
"The Lies I Weave Are Oh-so Intricate"**

The weeks leading up to Payton's third birthday were a rollercoaster ride. They started out well.

Sherlock had taken Payton on another outing. They stopped at the pet shop once again and this time when the manager asked if Payton wanted to play with the Border Collie puppies (after a comment towards both Sherlock and Damien about how it's "always nice to see fathers spending time with their children" which has Sherlock smirking and Damien sputtering an explanation about how he's just the nanny) Payton jumps at the chance, much to Sherlock's chagrin because if he has to deal with the patronizing glares of mothers and old ladies as he carries a disheartened Payton out of the pet store one more time…

Damien notices Payton playing with one puppy more so than the others and points it out to Sherlock.

After Payton's fifteen minutes of playtime are up, Sherlock picks up the kid who officially reeks of dog, kisses him and after explaining that "No, you can't get a puppy," and "I have to go and solve a case with Uncle John," passes him off to the nanny who ushers him out of the door and down the street to the ice cream parlor in record time.

Sherlock stays, asking the manager all about the dog before finally arranging it so he can pick the dog up the morning of Payton's birthday.

* * *

Daisha calls about three days to tell Christabella that she, Traci, Leo, and Connor are all leaving in Rose (which turns out to be Christa's '96 Mustang, a birthday present from her father back when they tried to pretend everything was alright between them) for New Orleans and they'd call when they decided to stop for the night.

Damien and Payton call out for them to have fun. Well, Damien does so first and Payton copies him in the most adorable way.

* * *

March fourth (which is the same day Mardi Gras starts, ironically) is the day Christa's ballroom dance competition starts. It's a two day affair. Sherlock and Payton watched both days, though Damien, Mary and John joined them for the second day.

After four months of practice her and her partner (some bloke by the name of Arthur) place second, which is a lot better than they had planned.

The win is celebrated by wine and champagne and Christa's homemade pizza at what they now all refer to as Damien's place. Although, Christa passes up all of it, when a sudden wave of nausea hits her.

* * *

The good stops there, because it is two days later that Christabella and Damien both get calls that announce Daisha and her three friends have all gone missing.

Christa's not overly worried, not at first.

Destiny, Daisha's mother, calls her mega worried because none of them has answered the phone and they missed check in.

Christa laughs. "Relax, Destiny, they're probably all stuck in bed with hangovers. They'll call when they're not suffering from blaring headaches."

But it's at three-thirty the next morning that Destiny calls back and Christa leaves the first chance she gets.

* * *

She's gone for an entire week and when she returns, she doesn't say anything on the topic.

Damien, however, tells that she wasn't able to find her car, let alone any word about Daisha. And considering that it's in the middle of Mardi Gras, no one was really helpful anyway.

* * *

Three days before Payton's birthday that the boy is attacked.

Damien had taken him to the park and with an extra watchful eye. Almost too watchful because he almost misses the stranger (and Damien has been to this particular park enough to know most of the patrons by sight if not by name) who starts to walk across the grass towards Payton.

He makes it to his charge exactly three seconds after the other man grabs Payton's hand and starts dragging him away.

"Let the kid go, and I won't make a scene,"

"Back off, Princess," the man growls holding a knife to Payton's cheek (Damien can only imagine what that blade is made from), "and no one but the kid gets hurt."

"I don't think you understand. If you don't let the child go-"

"You'll make a scene?"

Damien only grins. "Oi! Pervert, get your hands off of him. I saw what you were doing in the bushes."

It might have been cheesy, but the few dads that are at the park advance on the creeper.

Damien has no doubt the man could've easily taken out the four men, five including himself, but he doesn't because it's not about them. The man does, however, nick Payton's cheek with the blade, which makes him scream.

Despite how calmly it all went down, Payton's pretty shaken up by the blade against his cheek, and the moment the man relinquished his hold on the kid, Payton wraps himself around Damien's legs.

He's still pretty shaken by the time they reach Baker Street. Christabella is the first one at the door and she's all grabby until she's swaddled her son in her arms.

"Warm milk with honey and-"

"Rose petals," Damien finishes as he dashes off to his apartment. "I have something for you as well."

Christa would've followed him had she not been stopped by Sherlock who'd come dashing into the townhouse with a winded John right behind him.

"He's fine," Chris says, although she holds him tighter. Sherlock fusses over the boy until Chris finally relinquishes custody. Aside from when they had raced to save John back in November she doesn't think she's ever seen Sherlock so scared. "I told you."

He nods towards her as he peppers kisses into his son's hair and follows her down towards Damien's apartment.

The scent of roses and honey waft through the apartment, mixed with the fragrant, though not always pleasant, tangling smells of the dried plants and herbs hanging around the kitchen. The whole apartment is starting to look less like an apartment and more like an old apothecary shop.

"It's almost done, Chris," Damien says from where he's whisking honey into a small sauce pot. "And if you want it, there's a vile up on the third shelf of the rack over the bookshelf over there," he nods his head towards said bookshelf. "It's a little bottle, pale yellow liquid. It'll calm your nerves. And it's not addictive."

"Great, thanks," she deadpans but she does go get the vile and downs it all in one go. "That is disgusting. What's in it?"

"Do you really want to know?"

She shakes her head. "No. But I do want to know how my son got the cut on his cheek."

Damien sighs before launching into the story, pausing only to poor the faintly pink mixture into a mug and hand it off to Sherlock for Payton to sip at.

"What is this?" Sherlock asks as he sniffs at the mug.

"It's milk, honey and crushed rose petals. _Careful_, _bambi_, it's hot," Christa warns. She watches the boy, with a smile, blow raspberries in attempt to cool the drink down.

For a moment things are okay.

* * *

It's the night before Payton's birthday that it really all comes to a head.

Christa's not sure herself if it's stress or if it's her way of easing Sherlock into the fucked up web of lies that is her life.

"I can't really blame Nema, I mean, he is _my_ son. I should be more watchful. She's my mother, not his."

Christa had never really noticed it, being such a gradual thing, Sherlock's tendency to physically show his emotions. But when Sherlock heaves a heavy sigh, she turns towards him with a frown.

"What is it?"

"Explain it to me," he says as he sits on the edge of his bed

"Explain what?"

"Who Nema is _exactly_."

"Nema? It's short for Nemamiah, the angel of just causes. Some say she was an archangel, but that's not…"

"Not what I meant."

Christa opens her mouth to say something, probably the same thing she says every time Sherlock asks, but the detective gives an almost unperceivable shake of his head.

"The truth this time, Christabella."

"What do you want me to tell you then? I-" She sighs and throws her arms out to the side.

"She's not just your grandmother, is she?"

Christa stares at him, there's an unnecessary fear in her eyes. "You wouldn't understand. You don't believe in any of it. I've never lied to you, not about Nema. Sylvia Mercoletti is my grandmother. Nemamiah, on the other hand, is my mother and you will never understand that. They're not one in the same."

"What I don't _understand_ is you. I've tried to make sense of everything you've told me, but it doesn't make sense." He sighs again and looks towards his window where rain has started to tap against the glass. "Somewhere you've lied and forgotten about it."

She grits her teeth and looks down to her feet. "I've never lied to you. Not since you faked your death."

"Then explain it to me, Anabeth! Because obviously I've missed something."

There's an unbidden fury in his eyes that she hasn't seen since Moriarty was alive. She winces and folds in on herself.

"All this secrecy about-about your family, about what Moriarty knew about you that Moran knows now that I still don't. Mary knows! I'm your boyfriend, Christa, and the father of your son. If anyone should know, it's me. Do you not trust me?"

"You already know!" she growls. "You've just elected to ignore it. Think Sherlock. Everything I've told you, everything that has slipped from Mary or Daisha or Jim or, hell, Gabriel's even said some things. And I know you've got to wonder why Payton calls you _Elo_. My first language, _Payton's_ first language, wasn't English, but it wasn't Cherokee or Italian either. By now you've got to realize something. I've told, time and time again. But you know, I should've expected it from someone who voluntarily deleted everything about the solar system from their fucking mind palace."

She shakes her head and pulls a feather from her hair. It's not black like the ones she'd had before. It's a rusty color, coppery, and if he thought about it, it looks less healthy than the others too.

"Maybe it's time you took a little more stock in religion and myth, than science and logic. Maybe you'll understand then."

She lays the feather on the bedside table and turns to leave the bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. But it's not here."

* * *

"And you two never would've gotten along? Somehow I doubt that's true."

Christabella looks across the cafe table, over steaming mugs and chocolate chip cookies, at the less than appealing man she perhaps might one day call her brother-in-law.

"God no. Yeah, perhaps we both have a history with opioids, but we never would have gotten along. We're too alike, yet so vastly different."

Mycroft says something in return that she ignores as she stares out the window, faintly registering the grey rain that douses the outside world in pity and depression. She thinks that in here, in the safety and warmth of the cafe, there should be a bubble protecting her, but she still feels just as cold and angry as she would be if she was outside.

"I was toxic," she says, interrupting whatever thought was flowing out of the man's mouth. "If wasn't high, then I was drunk and if I wasn't drunk, I was the lead in some back room orgy."

Mycroft's wince goes unnoticed.

Her mind flickers to a rundown apartment, walls covered in canvas and paint and photographs to outshine the greatest pornographer. The memories were just as toxic as she was. They blink in and out of existence through hazy filters and painted with filthy, broken brushes. They bleed from one moment to the next, interspersed with drops of acid or the glint of a needle. The smell of sex, burnt coffee and cinnamon.

She remembers the touch of calloused hands, the taste of stale beer mixed with remnants of cocaine on her teeth. The sound of really shitty indie music and eyes. So many eyes. Greens and blues and browns, and every variation in between. She remembers the itch of a scabbing bite, the sting of cold as blackness descends.

Voices surround her and she thinks of a key, rusted and unused for years. Hidden under a false bottom of a drawer in her mother's house. The guest bedroom, beneath spare linens and cheap pillowcases. Her mouth goes dry, her tongue feels like sandpaper across her too chapped lips.

The last time she used that key, she had overdosed on a combination of ecstasy and blow as she bathed in water dirtied with blood. She doesn't remember whose it was.

She was pulled into the present, like a cold hand on a fevered forehead drags you from a nightmare.

"I was bad. Emotionally I was unstable, physically I was a disaster. I didn't sleep or eat. The only thing I drank was black coffee and anything with a percent by volume greater than fifteen," she explains with a shift of her eyes. "I was lucky. The number of times I OD'd, the diseases I could've contracted." She shakes her head. "I slept with a different guy every night. I had two abortions during all that time, and I am so ashamed to admit that. Despite it all, the toxicity of it all, my art was so renowned. Perhaps not in the right circles, but there's a certain market for what I did. And I loved the limelight. I always have. I'm such an attention whore. I'm just a whore, period."

She draws a cookie from the pile and dunks it lukewarm soy latte. Mycroft is pleasantly silent as she eats her cookie.

Possibly he doesn't know what to do with that information, or maybe he for once is at a loss for words.

"There's a lot I don't want Sherlock to know, things he's probably already deduced. Everything I've said here is part of it."

Mycroft opens his mouth to say something, but the chime of the bell over the door distracts him. There's a man coming in, soaked to the bone, his mess of blond hair sticking to his forehead. The man gives Mycroft a smile, flirty and bright. She's gone by the time he turns back.


	22. Chapter 21: Gonna Free Fall Out Into

**Chapter Twenty-one  
"Gonna Free Fall out into Nothing"**

It was one day shy of a month after Payton's birthday that things go from bad to worse.

Since the party, Christabella and Sherlock have tried to stay away from each other, dinners have all but stopped and the few dinners they've had have been so terribly awful and awkward that _Payton_ has asked to leave early. They don't talk at all, Sherlock's stopped going to her to bounce things off her for cases. She's stopped following.

Damien, Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary have all tried to talk to one or the other, sometimes both trying to get them to start speaking. Even Payton has started to urge his parents back together.

Sherlock, as always, is stubborn, but Christabella's more so. Both would never admit it, but they were eating themselves with guilt, blaming themselves. And if he's honest, Sherlock thinks he's begun to lose trust in her.

Chris is out late, well after midnight, she's not really sure what time it is, it's closer to dawn than dusk though. The night was beautiful. The skies were clear, stars sprinkling the dark despite the light emanating from the city.

She's swathed in jeans and her peacoat, her hair hidden beneath a light blue beanie and her guitar case in her hand. She's hotter than she thought she'd be, but the night's still cool.

She's digging for her keys, her acrylic nails taping melodiously against all the little things her hand bag, when she hears the first scream. It startles her and she jumps, looking around her. The street's clear, most of the lights in the windows are out. The ones above her head are on, but that hardly surprises her.

She returns to looking for her keys again, on edge, and finds them at the bottom beneath a little leather bound notebook. It's when she goes to unlock the door that she hears another scream. She drops her keys, and when she doesn't see anyone one the street, she picks up the key ring, finding the house key once more.

There's another one when she nearly has the door open, and then there's four then ten then twenty then fifty and then she knows it's all in her head, but she still spares one last glance outside as she ducks into the townhouse.

The entire sky, previously clear, is filled with streaks, orange-red in colour, like shooting stars.

Christabella's heart drops to her stomach.

Sherlock's curled up in his chair, their son cuddled up with him, watching some trashy show on the telly when she makes it to the top of the stairs. She doesn't stop running, sprinting over towards him and grasping the remote and flipping to the first news station she comes across.

"Oi!" Sherlock complains.

Christa shushes him as she stares intently.

"…_worldwide meteor shower. There's reports coming from all over the world. Astronomers don't have an answer as to why meteors have suddenly started raining from the heavens…_"

She gets a sour look on her face and she feels like her heart wants to come back up.

"Christa? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She just shakes her head.

* * *

Things are weird for the next week. It's almost like Christabella's reverted back to the Anabeth they'd first met. Her face is closed off. She stopped eating. She's on edge. The most worrisome thing is she doesn't speak. At all.

She ignores her phone, refuses to answer texts.

Music doesn't play.

She doesn't hold Payton.

Sherlock's thankful she hasn't returned to getting high, Mrs. Hudson and the rest feel the same. But Sherlock, for some reason, thinks this is worse than if she did.

She made herself a cup of tea at one point, but let it grow cold as she clutched it in her hands, her lifeless eyes staring out into the distance.

Sherlock has to coax her into the shower, but she just stands there letting the scalding water turn her skin red until it runs cold and her lips turn blue.

She gets sick, but there's nothing in her stomach to throw up.

There are times where she cries silently. Her eyes red and puffy for hours. Her tears are seemingly endless. But then she suddenly stops. Sometimes silent sobs wrack her body, sometimes they don't.

It gets to the point where _Mycroft_ begins to worry of her sanity.

But then she receives a phone call.

She's been slumming it on Sherlock's couch for the better part of the week. Her phone has rested by her head for the most part, except when someone charges it.

Payton's taken to curling up with his mother, wrapping her arms around himself and hugging her tightly, his embrace only loosening when he falls asleep. Damien and Sherlock speak in hushed whispers just inside the kitchen.

They ignore the ringing at first, recognizing the lyrics to Journey's "Who's Crying Now" immediately. They don't notice when it cuts off in the middle.

But they both freeze when they hear: "Hello?"

On the other end of the line, Leotie Quinn holds back tears at the sound of her daughter's voice. It's been almost two years since the last time they'd seen each other, probably longer.

"Anabeth! Oh thank God. I've been trying to get ahold of you since Sunday."

Christabella remains silent. She can feel the curious, although relieved, looks of the two men on her as she sits up and lays a sleeping Payton to the side.

"A woman called today. Mary? She was worried about you. Gave me your number and thought maybe I could help." The laugh that escapes her mother's lips isn't very light. "I'm not sure how much of a difference I could make. Not a good one anyway. I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important, you know that. I know you don't want anything to do with us anymore. I don't really blame you."

"Just get to the point, Leotie," Christa says and it's without emotion.

"Nema – Sylvia, my mothe – _your_ mother is dead."

Chris's face screws up. Tears fall without warning and she nods. "I know," she says and her voice is scratchy and rough like she's just swallowed an ocean of sand.

"I'm sorry."

Christa just shakes her head.

There's a silent moment borne then. It stretches for what feels like eons and right when Chris goes to hang up, Leotie speaks once more.

"That meteor shower, it wasn't – those weren't meteors were they?"

"No."

She doesn't remember hanging up or even moving after that, but suddenly she finds herself in Damien's arms. He's murmuring things into her hair, but he's not speaking to her. Maybe Sherlock but she doesn't see him when she turns her head.

She's not sure if he's speaking English or not, but she understands and there's one phrase that sticks out and repeats in her head over and over.

"_I pray to the Archangel Gabriel…_"

* * *

Christabella seems to come back to herself in the following days. She's still depressed, but she talks when she needs to. She still doesn't eat, but she's never drank so much tea in her life. Damien shadows her, like she shadows Sherlock. She's like a lost puppy, but one with a puppy of her own.

It's three days after the first phone call that she receives a second. This one from a completely unknown number.

Under normal circumstances, she'd never answer. If it was important, they leave a message or call back. But on a whim, she picks it up.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I'm looking for an Anabeth Quinn?"

Her breath hitches, heart leaping so high it nearly breaks her ribcage. Unknown number or not, it was the last person she'd expected to hear.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"How did you get this number?" she questions, sounding a lot angrier than she'd wanted to.

"It's good to hear you, too, Ana."

"I-I'm sorry. It's just, it's been what? Eight years since we last saw each other? I've changed my number six times since then. My parents didn't have this number until three days ago. And that was after two years of not speaking."

"Honestly? Someone gave it to me. I don't know who. They slid it under the door of the motel while I was out."

Chris scoffs. "And you just trusted this random number? Was there a note?"

"Er, yeah. Said '_Heard you were looking for someone. Thought this would help. M_'. Didn't think much of it until Alfie didn't know how to reach you."

"You called Alfie?"

"Yeah, yeah. He told me that I should think twice before I tried to get in touch with you, if I could. He said you had finally gotten out of some funk and had a family now and that you didn't need another ghost from your past to show up."

Chris looks down at her ring, she'd never gotten around to flipping it back to pointing away from her. "Right. I guess he still does care for me despite it all. He's right though, I have someone, and we have a kid and things were really good, but then my late husband's mistress? Boyfriend? Lover? I don't even know what they were. They're both psychopaths, I guess Sherlock's not too much better…"

"Can we skip the romantic crap? I called because I need your help."

"You always were one to get right to busi-"

"Sammy's gone."

Her heart stops, refuses to beat for a long moment. "What?! What do you mean gone? Is he…"

"No, at least I don't think he is. He could be, he wasn't in good shape when he left."

She breathes a sigh of relief. "I don't think I can handle any more death this week."

"Right. Sounds like we both have a lot of explaining to do."

"You don't have any other hunter buddies you can grab? Why do you even need someone else, let alone me? You know Sam better than I ever would."

"Look I'll explain it all when you get here."

"Who says I'm even going?"

"You'd hung up if you weren't."

"Yeah, alright. Text me the coordinates, I might not be there for a few days, I have some things to take care of first, but I'll be there."

"Thanks, Ana."

"No problem. Oh and Dean? Call me Christabella."

"Christabella?"

"It's my name, my _first_ name."

"Right."

"See ya."

* * *

Christabella's shaking like a leaf the next time Sherlock sees her. She's petrified, more petrified than when she met Tom for the first time, but less so than when she was waiting for the doctor at the A&amp;E when Payton fell off the play set when he was two. But just slightly.

Payton looks scared too, but there's something in his eyes that makes Sherlock frightened himself.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, darling, love of my life."

He looks her in the eyes for a moment before he sets his mug of tea down. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

She nods. "I don't know how long I'll be gone. I'll be back in time for the wedding. I'm leaving Payton with Damien for the time being. But that's not why I'm here. Well, not entirely."

Payton speaks up, then, asking his father not to hate them in Italian and Sherlock shakes his head and replies, "I could never hate you. Or your mother."

Chris bites her lip, tears springing up in her eyes. She was so completely sick of crying, it feels like it'll never stop sometimes.

"You might. After this. You said I don't trust you because there's a lot I refuse to tell you. A lot of important things. Like who my mother was. I never meant to lie to you, that's not true. I never meant for you to find out, at least not like you did. I mean, you try explaining that your grandmother is actually your mother." She swallows and picks up Payton. "There's more. And this actually might make the whole Sylvia-Leotie-Nemamiah-angel-of-just-causes thing make more sense. Sherlock," she takes a deep breath, "I'm not human. At least not completely."

"You're not making any sense, Christa. Of course you're human."

She shakes her head. "I think it would be easier to show you."

She closes her eyes, hiding the pleading blue, brighter than usual, Sherlock notes.

The lights in the apartment flicker and that storm that's been brewing all day, despite the clear forecast finally breaks and releases a bolt of lightning. Things go really bright and then really dark in a half second. When things level out, there's shadows against the wall, dark silhouettes of…wings?

The shadows are only visible for a split second before there's another flash of lightning and they're corporeal.

They're mostly black, with a few brownish coppery spots. She has them stretched as much as she can, and still they can be stretched further, but then draws them in and surrounds herself with them.

She picks at a brownish spot nervously, glancing at her sort-of-boyfriend hesitantly.

"They need to be preened, since Gabriel wasn't here for very long, and really we didn't get a chance alone, and Nema… well, she's not… So yeah, I know I should preen them more often, but since it's always been hard for me, as flexible as I am, I can't reach all of them. Also, I'm molting." She twirls a coppery feather in her fingers.

Sherlock backs up until he's pressed against the counter. "Wh-what – what are you?"

She takes a deep breath. "I'm an angel."

* * *

"_**Love is a temporary madness**, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. **Love is not breathlessness**, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don't blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being "in love", which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both **an art and a fortunate accident**."  
\- Louis de Bernières_

* * *

_A: And that's it. That's the end. Cue influx of "I knew it!"_


End file.
